


The Crimson Conscript

by M_Mortimer



Category: Band of Brothers, Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Hydra (Marvel), Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-03-22
Packaged: 2019-11-27 18:41:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 20
Words: 63,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18197909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_Mortimer/pseuds/M_Mortimer
Summary: The Winter Soldiers weren't the first to be created. She was the first test subject; to make sure everything worked, a piece in their puzzle whose edges grew so warped, she no longer fit in their frame. A mutant, a rebel, a soldier, a friend.





	1. Chapter 1

_12_ _ th _ _December 1939_

Given her position, Edith was not in the mood to be talking about her health in the near future. With one hand squeezing the arm of the chair, her eyes glanced down to the needle taped to the inside of her elbow. The skin was a dark purple colour,

“We will need you to come in next week Miss Woods,” there was a squat, round faced doctor sat on a stool opposite her with a note board resting on his thighs, “The hospital requires more research,” he told her,

“You’ve had six pints of my blood already,” she muttered, shuffling a little in the chair, “How much else do you need?”

The doctor raised his eyebrows at her answer, “You remember how much we’ve taken?” he leaned closer, his eyes darting to the window cautiously, “Do you have eidetic memory?” she could hear the slight pinch of a Swiss accent under his hushed tones and she nodded once, her eyes casting behind him at the closed door,

“Close enough to call it that,” she sighed, “As I said, how much else do you need?” the doctor hurriedly wrote something down on the clipboard and stood, stopping the blood flow and carefully taking the needle from her skin, a trickle of red spilling from the puncture mark,

“I would advise you to stay in the hospital Miss Woods, I would like to see you maybe in a few hours,” the doctor cleaned and taped the pinprick of a wound, “I just need to make a call to my supervisor due to new developments,” he ushered her out of the room and slammed the door, leaving Edith swaying in the corridor.

With angered grumble, she pulled her cardigan over her bruised arm and walked back to the waiting room with weak legs. Edith sat down in the same chair by the window that she had chosen this morning before her blood tests, peering over the window ledge down into the busy street below. London was teeming as usual but the mass of green and blue reminded Edith of the matter at hand. War was looming, forces were being prepared; the whole country was sitting tight, listening to the radios for any news of Hitler’s advances. All Edith could do was look down upon them, in no way fit to help anyone. She was offered a cup of tea at some point but she declined, reminding the young nurse that she could not eat or drink,

“But your tests have finished,” the nurse said nervously, “You can go home,” of course the nurse, along with probably the rest of the department knew about her tests. She was a common patient and yet no one knew the real reason why,

“The doctor wants to see me again in a minute,” Edith reassured the fumbling nurse, “He said he needed to make a call,”

 _About new developments_.

About her eidetic memory maybe? She was in no danger from being captured or kidnapped, or recruited by an enemy force that could use her memory against her. After finishing university, she was asked to attend a meeting with the secretary of the MoD and other officials of the government; they warned her to keep her ‘gift’ under wraps, to keep it from any odd or suspicious looking people who asked her too many questions about it. Then they offered her a job in Intelligence, a very well paid job that required hard training and concentration; but she declined, with flushed cheeks, and explained her current condition. September 23rd, 1939 had been when she was first approached by the dumpy doctor with a receding hairline, claiming that he wanted to use her for research, to use her as a volunteer for a new project he was conducting, a secret project. Edith only partly lied to the officials and said nothing about the doctor, instead giving them the news that she was undergoing tests because her blood contained certain anomalies that could be dangerous.

Which was partly true; after her first test the doctor reported back that her blood type was extremely rare and that it contained cells that normal people did not have.

“Am I going to get ill then?” she had sighed upon the news and the doctor shook his head excitedly,

“No, but we will need you to come in for more tests,” he had seemed far too enthusiastic for a man who had just taken a pint and a half of blood in one sitting, “Just a few more, to make sure,”

A few more tests translated into one or two every week, for the past two months. More than once Edith had collapsed on the way back from the hospital, and on the first time, had been kindly carried the rest of the way home by two policemen who had thought she was outrageously drunk. They hadn’t taken in her white face, the strained veins on her arms and her constant shaking, but her slurred speech had confirmed their hunches. Edith lived alone in a small, one bedroomed flat but often she slept on the sofa for her muscles and body were too drained to carry her further than the sitting room. She was forced to work part time as a librarian to keep up her rent, part time because she could not make other days due to the _god damned tests_. Her landlord was kind, accepting that she never saw her youngest tenant but regularly checked up on Edith, usually at the most inconvenient times.

“Edith dear, are you okay?” the light knocking on the door had made her vomit into her kitchen sink, “Edith, I can hear you being sick, are you alright? Let me in!”

“I’m fine Mrs Clarke,” Edith had assured her in her strongest voice, her throat still stinging and her eyes streaming, “Just a bug, I’ll get over it,”

“Okay, well, I am just down the hall if you need help or any medicine,”

Edith appreciated the help Mrs Clarke offered her, but the doctor had not told her about the side effects or other symptoms from taking so much blood in such little time.

 _These god damned tests_.

“Miss Woods,” the familiar Swiss-English accent of her doctor broke her stream of thoughts and Edith rose from the chair, her legs now stronger and her arms no longer shaking, “Follow me please,”

She could not help but notice his dark, unnerving expression as she walked next to him, surprisingly struggling to keep up with his fast pace,

“I need to perform other tests-,” the doctor began but Edith interrupted angrily, her neck flushing in frustration,

“What do you mean ‘other tests’?” she fumed, storming next to him, “You’ll drain me dry if you do anymore, they are interrupting my daily life,”

“You work as a part time librarian Miss Woods, I am sure they can afford to lose you,” the doctor commented offhandedly, causing Edith to stumble slightly with warm cheeks, “You are completely available to participate with us, Miss Woods,”

“Why do you need me?” she asked, becoming more and more frustrated with what little information the doctor was giving her, following him through a pair of double doors upon which the windows were clouded over and barred. They entered a room that she didn’t even know existed within the hospital; it was dark with grey walls and no windows, three small bulbs flickered from the high ceiling. Edith shivered, feeling suddenly very cold and very nauseous. Her hands began to shake again and her vision narrowed, her stomach growing very heavy like lead.

“I don’t understand, this isn’t our usual room,” she forced out. Her mouth turned dry, “I though you said you were going to perform more tests?” she asked the doctor, finding him standing in between two men twice the size of herself; dressed in a black uniform, with black masks to cover their faces and a large red cuff secured to their right bicep. She gazed up at them, eyes so wide they reflected the three men in front of her,

“Yes, but not here,” the doctor replied darkly and Edith shrank away from his tone,

“They aren’t doctors, are they?” Edith asked pathetically and the doctor nodded, his round, impish face stretching into a rather villainous smile,

“Quite correct Miss Woods,” his voice changed mid-sentence, lowering and he started to snicker menacingly.Edith began to inch her way backwards, the two uniformed men following her movements, taking out guns that made her cower in fear. A metal object flew towards her head and she ducked, turning towards who had tried to attack her and spotted several other large men in black uniform, all advancing towards her with raised guns,

“I don’t understand why you need me,” her voice wavered, “Why do you need all this?” she gestured around her at the men and she found that her hands were noticeably shaking, her heart pounding painfully against her ribs,

“We need you for experimentation Miss Woods,” the doctor told her with a harsh laugh and she felt a sudden lightning pain strike the back of her head. Edith’s vision immediately clouded and her skull felt as though it had been split in two. Her body keened forwards and her eyes rolled to the back of her head, a small gasp escaping from her lips. The doctor watched as his patient was cuffed and carried away by two men, her feet dragging along the floor. He followed the armed guards out of the hospital, making sure to lock the doors behind him and he pulled a hat low over his eyes, tucking his hands in his pockets before joining the crowds of ignorant people passing by.

_14th December 1939_

Edith woke with a start. She squinted in the harsh light a few times before gazing around herself. It hurt to move her neck and her head throbbed painfully. She noticed a table with several instruments one would usually find in a surgery and Edith decided that she was in some sort of laboratory, sat in a chair facing a darkened window, the tiles so white they reflected her distressed expression.

“Ah! You are awake!” an accented voice exclaimed happily from behind her and she struggled to turn her neck, the pain preventing her from doing it easily. She then found that her wrists and ankles had been bound to the chair with thick pieces of rope,

“Where am I?” she asked nervously, watching as the Swiss doctor came round to stand in front of her,

“You are in Austria,” he replied and Edith’s hands closed into fists, “London was far too dangerous, someone might have discovered us,”

“Who are you? Really?” her voice wavered a little and the doctor went over to the instruments, straightening them out and polishing a scalpel with the sleeve of his coat,

“My name is Anrim Zola,” his tongue caught between his front teeth, “I’m a doctor and I work for HYDRA,”

A door to the right slammed open, three black uniformed men marched in followed by a fourth who was dressed a little different. He had a long pinched face and watery blue eyes; he was dressed smartly in a suit with a tie, all black with a small red badge pinned to his lapel. He towered over them all,

“We are a division of deep sciences, branched from Nazism itself,” the huge man explained proudly, “We are HYDRA,”

“I’ve never heard of them - you,” Edith stuttered, feeling her legs quake,

“We are to begin a new project, a new weapon of science,” another doctor entered the room, this one a young female and she had a pair of scissors tucked into the top pocket of her coat, “We’ve been watching you Miss Woods, for several years in fact. You are lonely, friendless, _hopeless_ with almost no will to live,” the man’s tone was almost seductive, filled with emotion that did not seem to show on his face, “You live alone, work alone, and think alone – with that beautiful mind of yours. Oh! We have such plans for you _frauline_ ; you will be magnificent – so strong and godlike. Our doctor here,” he gestured to Doctor Zola, “wants to compete with our enemies, we want to win, we want victory and with you as our prime subject; you are to be our own Soldier to fight for our ideals,”

Edith let out a terrified breath she didn’t know she was holding and a sudden exhaustion washed over her. A soldier - a subject; for a test, for experiments and her face paled at the thought. She thought it was odd enough that her doctor was foreign, him taking more than the advised limit of blood from her each week, for the last month and a half. Edith’s heart thudded so hard against her chest she thought that she was going to vomit. Her bones quaked at the sheer thought of being used for a science experiment, created by her country’s enemy. Her breath hitched and she began to wheeze painfully,

“What? No – I don’t want to!” Edith struggled against her bonds, “Don’t, please! I don’t understand! Why me?” she started to cry as the female doctor stood in front of her, holding the scissors up to the light. Edith, in a flurry of tears, head butted the woman and blood splattered the floor. She tried to rip herself from the chair and freed one ankle before kicking the female doctor in the chest. Edith wasn’t very strong, she knew that, and she wasn’t very brave either, because she began to sob again when she managed to slip her right wrist free. A guard lunged at her, wrapping a beefy hand around her neck,

“NO! STOP, PLEASE!” she sobbed and clawed at the tightening fingers over her windpipe. The guard grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanking so hard that the chunk fell out on to the floor. Edith screamed and dragged her nails over the exposed flesh of his wrist, causing him to hiss and let go of her. She saw black spots in her vision but still started to scrabble at the rope binding her other wrist, foolishly not seeing the man in the suit stalking up to her. He thrust his fist into the side of her head, knocking her and the chair to the floor.

“ _Stop fighting you foolish girl!_ ” he snarled, kicking her once in the stomach,

“I don’t know! I don’t know what you said!” Edith pitifully wailed, earning herself another kick to the abdomen, “Please!”

From where she had fallen on the floor, the chair had splintered and the ropes had loosened just enough for her to break free. Edith let out a heaving cough as she was picked up by the hair and kneed in the stomach. She spat blood into the man’s face.

“Let me go!” her hands pushed at his chest, thumping with all her might but he did not loosen his grip, “Let me go please!”

“ _Comply to our programme_ ,” he hissed into her ear and Edith frantically shook her head, kicking her feet out in all directions in the hope she would hit something. Her face was sodden with tears and her throat was hoarse from screaming and crying, “ _Do as I say, your orders come from me now,_ ” the man told her, loosening his fists and letting her slide to the ground by his boots,

“I can’t speak German,” Edith managed out, shuffling along the base of the wall to get away from him,

“We will teach you, and other things,” he assured her, as if now everything was perfectly fine, as if she had agreed to his terms, “We will train you to be the greatest soldier in history,”

“But I’m a librarian,” Edith tried to reason with him, propping herself up against the wall with one hand wrapped around her bruised stomach, “You can’t do this to me,”

She did not even see him move, a fist connecting with her jaw so hard that her head smacked against the wall,

“ _You will comply, you will obey me, you will be trained and you will be my greatest creation,_ ” his foreign words echoed in Edith’s head as she was dragged from the white room to a grey room with barred windows. She was sat in another chair, this one made of metal and her hands were cuffed behind her back. They secured her ankles so tightly that she started to cry again, though silently this time.

Edith was left alone for hours, staring at the wall opposite her, watching the dust particles swirl in the light emitted from the one lone bulb. She never stopped crying, trying so hard to figure out what the man had told her; she knew, from her very limited knowledge of the German language, that the arrangement was entirely non-consensual. Silent sobs wracked her sore chest when a stick thin woman with yellowing skin entered the room, adorned with a pair of scissors and a shaving kit.

“For hygiene,” the woman told her in a very thick German accent, hacking away at Edith’s carefully grown hair before shearing her scalp clean. And again, Edith was left alone, shivering from the loss of her beloved locks, her eyes painfully dry from crying for so long. She didn’t know what time it was and she didn’t dare fall asleep, in case the man in charge returned.

“ _Hello my dear girl_ ,” that voice snapped Edith’s head up from the lulled daze she had dropped into, “How do you like the facility? Herr Schmidt made it just for you,” it was Doctor Zola,

“I don’t understand, why me?” Edith was tired, she wanted to rest and have something to eat, “Why not any other person? Why not a prisoner of war or a betrayer?” she was still desperate for them not to use her in the programme; she still had hope for freedom.

The doctor seemed to know what she was thinking because he shook his head and laughed excitedly,

“You are very special Miss Woods,” he took her hand and squeezed it, “And your blood is equally special, as you know, and further testing has shown the anomaly I have been looking for,” he rubbed his hands together, “When I tested your blood with my serum, the anomaly not only accepted the serum; it mutated in ways I have never seen before! We tried so many others, but you were the only positive result and so therefore the only one worthy of joining our programme,”

“SHUT UP!” she roared, throwing herself around the chair, gnashing her teeth at Doctor Zola and crying out with everything she had left, “I DON’T WANT TO JOIN YOU SADISTIC BASTARDS! DON’T YOU GET IT? I DON’T WANT TO BE WORTHY!” Edith was shaking with rage and with fear, kicking her legs out and attempting to wriggle free of her metal bonds. She was blinded with overflowing emotions, seeing a mass of black flood the room and a siren started going off in the distance. Edith still struggled and bit and spat and shrieked at the top of her lungs. Her attempts were pitifully ineffective, especially when one figure of black easily dodged a poorly executed head butt and lunged at her neck, plunging a syringe beneath her skin. Edith lashed out with her mouth, sinking her teeth into his hand and he let out a startled squeal before thwacking her over the head with his forearm. Her screams immediately ceased, though her mouth was still wide open and her limbs began to quiver involuntarily. Edith slumped forwards lethargically. Someone placed a hand on her shoulder, as if to comfort her slowing breaths and her vision began blur. Edith tried so hard to stay awake, rolling her head around and moaning out, fighting to keep the greyness from overtaking her senses; stretching her back into an arch before lolling her head to one side. The same hand stroked her bare scalp and whispered several gentle words of encouragement into her ear, in German and she merely huffed out in response; it was all she could manage before her eyes closed.


	2. Chapter 2

It was the strange pressure against her ears that roused Edith from unconsciousness, feeling as though she were immersed fifty meters underwater. Her lungs burned and her clothes were soaked, however she was not cold. Her shortness of breath continued, rather painfully and it felt as though someone had tied a rope around her neck. Through the fogginess, her fingers fumbled around her throat and she found, instead of rope, a gloved hand squeezing her flushed skin. Edit’s arms felt heavy as she clawed at the assailant’s fingers and she grunted as boot drove sharply into her right side,

“This is your punishment soldier,” Schmidt, the leading man, commented from somewhere above her and Edith gasped out, realising that she was covered in a cold sweat instead of water. Her eyes flicked around frantically, focussing on the masked guard hovering over her and then to the other that was circling the two like a predator, “For how you reacted to the doctor,” another kick to her right side and a rib fractured, sending her screaming and struggling against the masked man. Schmidt growled and drew out a pistol, and Edith screamed when one shot rang out through the room, the man above her falling limp. She continued wailing when his weight bore down on top of her chest, blood smearing against her neck and blouse. Her hands grabbed the lapels of his leather coat and heaved him off of her, muscles protesting with the effort. Edith let out a shaky sob and sat up, wiping scarlet blood from her mouth,

“With me soldier, we will begin,” Schmidt picked her up from the floor like she was lighter than a child, shoving her out in front by the scruff of her neck, “You will run,” a pair of black boots were shoved into her arms when they passed through some doors, “You will run every day, you will train,”

He paused to let Edith put on the shoes, swearing angrily at her when she spent too long tying the laces and backhanding her across the cheek when she fumbled with a knot. He, along with seven or so masked guards, then led her out of the building and up a track. It was the middle of winter and she wore nothing but a woollen blouse, a petticoat and a skirt. Edith felt humiliated when she started to shiver, tucking her fingers into her armpits for warmth and she looked around, squinting through the falling snow. They were somewhere remote, with not a single light as far as the eye could see and it was darkening with every passing second. The pine trees surrounding her becoming even more monstrous with their black shadows as she glanced up ahead, spotting that the track veered off to the right on a steep incline. She wondered if it led somewhere, to another important building maybe.

“Run,” Schmidt commanded, standing off to the side and accepting a pair of binoculars from one of the guards, “Follow the path and I will shoot when I want you to turn back around,”

His pistol was on his hip as promised and Edith let out a whimper. 

“Now soldier or you will be running in the dark,” one of the soldiers cocked his gun warningly and Edith squeaked, setting off up the track at a quick pace. Mud slopped up her shins and stained her skirt. Her breath came out in short clouds in front of her face and she felt warm sweat trickle over her nose as she started up the almost vertical incline. After three minutes, Edith’s chest started to wheeze and her cracked rib was shrieking at her, decidedly making up her mind that running was certainly not something to do while injured. However, it was a reminder of the punishments she would receive, of the punishment that would be inflicted if she walked or if she stopped completely. At thirty minutes in, Edith was struggling to keep an even pace, keening off to one side and swallowing down aching pants. She was not built for running; she was petit, willowy and short legged, and her strides were more of shuffles. At fifty minutes, Edith retched and vomited spectacularly down herself, staining her blouse and skirt, and stopping only once to wipe her mouth shakily. It was at eighty minutes when her legs started to wilt and cramp with every other step, and she threw up again, this time to one side. The distant gunshot startled her and she nearly tripped, sharply righting herself before starting back down the track with exhausted tears staining her cheeks.

It was a miracle that she returned, though breathing as if she had severe asthma and clutching her side in pain.

“I am glad you did not stop for long soldier,” Schmidt seemed pleased with her petty performance and waved a leather gloved hand at her, “We will do it again tomorrow, and I will want you to be faster,”

Edith was shown to a room that was suspiciously nice for a Nazi science division; with a feathered bed and silk sheets, a desk with a typewriter sat atop it, a shelf full of books in many different languages and a wardrobe with a single package tucked inside. She sat on the bed to open it, ripping back the brown paper with bleary eyes.

It was a uniform, black and unappealing, made from a dense and heavy material that smelt like a carpet shop. There were a pair of trousers, with lots of pockets sewn on; a grey vest; a shirt that had a zip instead of buttons; a jacket that was rather confining yet breathable, with black fastenings that joined up down her left side; and there was a jumble of weighty leather straps which, upon stretching out, was something Edith never thought she would ever be given.

It was a holster, complete with two loaded pistols.

 

 

_January 1940_

Edith, begrudgingly, found herself growing stronger with every run Schmidt made her complete. It was along the same track, sometimes for longer and sometimes for a faster time, and quite often he didn’t even turn up to let that signalling shot ring out, instead letting one of the guards let her run just a few more minutes than required. It had only been a month but Edith felt the cramp less and less, and rarely came back to the finish point with vomit down her jacket. The runs were done during the early hours of the morning, while it was still snowing lightly and before the sun was even up. Edith next received a large breakfast of egg, ham and cheese, and when she asked about their kindness; she was told it was to build up her strength for war. At ten o’clock, she was marched down to a small, airy room to be taught the four different languages Schmidt had requested (German, French, Russian and Polish). She was then given lunch at noon and taken to another lecture room to be taught about war, the military and weapons. They brought out machine guns for her to examine and then take apart; telling her to list off all the Nazi made tanks and what artillery they could shoot, how far and how much damage they caused; she was shown different weapons from each of her home allies, asking her to pick out every criticism and calling the countries her enemy. Five o’clock meant a meaty and protein ridden dinner, before the most gruelling and demanding part of the day; physical training. It took place in a chamber large enough to house a submarine and there was an elevated box on the North wall with a large window to look out of; where Schmidt and a number of other scientists over looked her training. Edith despised that part of the day, as her arms were spindly and thin, her knees knobbly and her stomach was concave from so many years of living through a depression. The chamber had high ceilings and steel beams creating a wide corridor up the middle of about one hundred and fifty meters, which her coaches would make her sprint up and down numerous times if she failed to perform to their standards. Her coaches were always the same; big women with hunched shoulders and long noses, bitten nails and rasping voices that turned into coughs if they shouted too much. They forced Edith to do push ups and chin ups and burpees and lunges and squats, backhanding her if she refused. At the beginning of the month, Edith could barely do half a press up and her one hundred meter sprint time was over sixty seconds, she would return to her quarters with bruises littering her jaw because she ‘looked hesitant’. On the 3rd of January 1940, Edith could do fifteen proper press ups, five chin ups and she could sprint one hundred meters in twenty seconds.

“ _Still too slow,_ ” Schmidt assessed her one night, dragging a gloved hand over her exposed skin, “ _Still too weak_ ,” his fist connected brutally with her stomach and Edith howled. The coach barked at her to start climbing the ropes. They varied in thickness, reaching all the way to the rafters which were one hundred feet up. The coach shunted her over to a slimmer rope and demanded she climb it to the halfway point, without gloves and without a mat beneath to cushion a fall. Edith began to cry, wrapping her already burning fingers around the rope and heaving herself upwards, squeezing her knees together and twisting her feet the way her coach had previously taught her to. She knew that she was being timed and that she was making slow progress with tears staining her cheeks, but at halfway, Edith continued to climb shakily to everyone’s utter surprise. She was indeed going at a snail’s pace but at least it was something and she sniffed, pausing for a second before inching her way back down the rope to the floor.

Edith got an extra chocolate bar that night, and a bruised eye for disobeying an order.

In September of the same year, Edith noticed that the scientists had started to get a little jumpy and nervous. They shrunk away into a corner every time she was in the same room as them. She knew that, after intense training, she looked a little thicker and it didn’t bother her as much as it should have.

Edith still hated the place, even after ten months of living in and around it; she hated the smells, the damp walls, the cold nights and the haunting corridors. It was a building of nightmares and Edith was a permanent resident. Commandant Schmidt had upped her training and made her run with weights strapped to her ankles and shoulders; gave her stricter coaches and longer hours in that chamber, and brought in German Generals to teach to her about army tactics. The language lessons grew shorter and shorter, until Edith suspected that something else would replace them entirely.

 

On a rainy Friday, two scientists came into her room, followed by two masked guards. The temperature instantly dropped upon their arrival,

“Tonight is the night!” one of the scientists, an elderly male, clapped his hands together; “Herr Doctor has made his final decision!” Edith sat up, clad only in the vest of her uniform and the lightweight shorts she did her Physical Training in. She tried not to speak for she had not been given the order to and she was to obey all orders given,

“The Immunisation procedure will start tonight!” Doctor Zola had told her previously that in order for the serum to mutate her body, she must feel no pain whatsoever. He called it Immunisation. She called it torture and had received a pale bruise for snapping.

“No,” she whispered, glancing at their loaded guns and the excited looks on the scientists faces, “Not now, please,” she begged, suddenly overcome with agonising fear, “I am not ready!” Edith was weeping and her legs were forced to follow where the guards where taking her. She was physically stronger, sturdier and had the beginnings of some very powerful limbs but she was still a terrified librarian who had been kidnapped for a scientific experiment. Edith was still scared, still angry, and still fearful of what the future held. But as she was pulled through corridors that she hadn’t seen before, sobbing and begging for her guards to let her down; Edith realised that she also felt hopeless. She had known the day of her Immunisation would come and yet she had done nothing to escape this prison.

She was brought into a new room, similar to the one she was brought to on her first day in The Facility. Struggling against the grip of the guards, she was forced on to a table and the back of her head collided with cool metal. A groan escaped her lips,

“ _Making noises when you bang your head is not acceptable soldier_ ,” she felt her clothes being ripped, cut and shredded by the guards, leaving her pitifully vulnerable in her underwear. She couldn’t turn her head to hide her tears, for someone had already placed a metal cuff over her neck to stop her moving. Several doctors in white coats pinned her ankles and wrists down with similar cuffs and buckled leather straps over her chest and hips,

“ _We’ll work through that, won’t we?_ ” Edith heard Schmidt hiss and Doctor Zola agreed straight away,

“ _She will not be able to feel any pain_ ,” he said, reassuring the director but at his words, Edith choked loudly, “ _Don’t worry dear, we’ll start slow_ ,” the doctor replied, ordering his fellows to place small, square patches in place on her body; on her collar bones, either side of her abdominals and on her temples. The patches were cold and wet, causing her to flinch each time one was placed and Edith heard Zola command another action,

“Insert the needles,” he said in English and she felt the familiar dull prick of six different needles puncturing her skin. She forced herself not to wince at the contact; two going at each crook of her elbow, two on each side of her ribs and two just below her pulse point on her neck,

“That wasn’t so bad was it dear,” Doctor Zola smiled down at her, pressing his glasses up his nose before disappearing. Edith tried to raise her head but someone suddenly slammed it back down, opening her jaw and forcing a piece of rubber into her mouth,

“ _To stop your screaming_ ,” Schmidt said harshly, “ _If we are to get anywhere, you must not make a noise_ ,” and she nodded, her eyes welling up again as everyone fell silent. The hairs on her body stood up and she forced her bones to stop quaking in fear. A female’s voice suddenly started to count down,

“ _Five_ ,” Edith let out a small whimper, hearing a machine splutter into life, its engines whirring louder and louder,

“ _Four, three, two_ ,” the voice could barely be heard over the roar of the machine behind her. Edith’s cheeks were soaked from her tears, her palms were sweating and her body was paralysed with fear,

“ _One,_ ” and a lever was switched followed by a metal clanging. A pain so harsh and electrifying rattled through her body which caused her to violently arch her torso up and clamp her jaw together. She was glad for the piece of rubber for she would have surely bitten her tongue off, and she tried to not scream out from the pain pulsating through her veins from each of the needles. The leather straps stopped her from completely rising off the table, slamming back down before writhing against her bonds,

“ _How long?_ ” Doctor Zola asked his superior quietly, watching Edith’s limbs violently twitch against the table,

“ _Until she is ready,_ ” was the answer, “ _Until she is immune to all_ ,”


	3. Chapter 3

_March 1941_

Edith felt very little pain when she was shot with her first bullet, ripping through the skin of her waist, blood splattering the floor and ripping her uniform.

She had been stabbed twice, had her nose broken three times and her left knee cap shattered over the last six months. Schmidt sometimes trained her himself, alongside her immunising.

After the first session on the table, her coach had started to teach her hand-to-hand combat. It was not the clean kind where one would have a sense for mercy, to teach their opponent a lesson; it was dirty, bloody and torturous. Edith, having gained strength from her Physical Training, took to the combat skills very well, accordingly. She followed orders, executed each move precisely and accurately, more graceful than the demonstrations from her coaches. Each guard she came up against relished in giving the prisoner a bruise in the shape of their own fist, and yet they always came out the worst. The coach always let her do the first few practises on a sand filled bag, to get them perfect. Then the leather quickly turned to flesh and the quiet creaks of the suspension chain turned into grunts of pain. The first weeks were the basics; jabbing, punching and kicking. Then it turned into squeezing throats at just the right place, elbowing diaphragms, snapping spines and necks, dislocating knees and shoulders and hips; just enough to make the victim howl in pain. Of course, Schmidt had decided that she wasn’t quite ready for first degree murder yet and so the training went on, though with not as much ruthlessness and strength.

But they were still turning her into a weapon.

“God Dammit,” she whined, clutching the wound and falling to one knee,

“ _SUPRES IT SOLDIER!_ ” Schmidt bellowed at her. She hadn’t been quick enough, she was not able to throw herself out of the way when the guard had spontaneously started shooting at her, “ _Soldier, remember your training or we will be forced to immunise you twice a day if you can’t handle a little bullet_ ,”

Her lips tightened at his words, her eyes quickly calculating the smug way the guard was standing with one hip jutting out. Edith saw red and lunged, inhumanly fast and with an almighty roar; whipping her boot up and into the side of the guard’s neck, letting him fall to the ground before cradling his head in her hands.

Edith held no hand to her waist, only small bruise showed where the bullet had grazed her. Her expression was bland, and Schmidt was doing nothing about it. The strength in her actions was infinite, ever so slowly squeezing and twisting the guard’s head until he let out a piercing shriek, a spine-chilling crack echoed through the chamber.

The guard slumped forwards, his head at a ninety degree angle to his body. Edith looked down at her own hands, horrified when she had come to terms with what had done.

“ _Twice a day_ ,” Schmidt seethed, “ _You should be faster by now_ ,” he marched away, Edith jogged up next to him, “ _Heal should take no time at all_ ,”

“ _It was my first bullet sir_ ,” she replied, wiping sweat from her temples. His eyes were black when he turned round to face her, a hysterical expression clouding his face and his smile was not something Edith had seen before.

 

 

 

_February 1942_

“ _Shoot it_ ,” Edith’s coach demanded icily, “ _I’ve told you twice now, shoot it or I shoot you_ ,” The gun felt heavy in her hand and Edith realised that she was quivering slightly, a bead of sweat rolling down her right temple.

She wasn’t nervous, she was excited. Edith had been anticipating this day for weeks, ever since she’d overheard Schmidt debriefing her coaches on her weaponry training. The first coach had cheekily promised her a box of ammunition if she ran her one hundred meter sprint in ten seconds; but that one had been led away the next day and shot for ‘being sympathetic to the prisoner’. Edith had liked that one, even if the woman had been over six foot and had biceps the size of basketballs, she was sad to hear the news of her disposal; saddened but not distraught like she would have been six months ago. The coach she had now was nasty, strict and disciplinary like a proper trainer should be, pushing Edith to her absolute limits every day.

And so, following the orders like any other soldier would; she raised the gun and held it out, letting the coach correct her stance and lock her elbows in place. There was a target fifty meters or so away, a large piece of card with the outline of a man printed on with grey circles around the head, torso, thighs and shoulders. They were her targets but the coach only wanted to see if Edith could actually use a gun before they moved on to knowing where to shoot someone. The coach lengthened Edith’s neck slightly and stood back, waiting for her to take the shot.

Edith had used a gun only twice in her life; one time in America to stop a wolf from eating her uncle’s chickens and another to prevent two burglar’s from stealing a jewellery store that she had been inconveniently in. The wolf had bled out after a few hours from a stomach wound and Edith had only managed to shatter the window of the shop because her hands had been shaking so badly. Her fingers grew pale around the weapon, letting out seven shots of which only four hit the target.

Everything was silent, no one laughed or shouted or spat insults. Schmidt looked down at her from the glass room with scrutinising eyes however the rest of the spectators were speechless. Edith held out her hand for another cartridge, unloading all of the bullets into the chest of the target and creating one large tear in it. She then put the gun back in the holster on her thigh and stood to attention; hands behind her back, feet shoulder width apart and spine a straight as a ruler.

“ _Get out of my sight,_ ” his harsh words nearly made her flinch and Edith was grabbed underneath her arms, two guards hauling her out of the chamber, “ _Give her to Zola_ ,” the instructions came roughly and she was carted down a grey corridor, the guards squeezing her shoulders far too tight. She was thrown against a door, it falling open and crashing to the floor.

Immediately, the two guards started to kick her mercilessly. The bruises that were the result throbbed for ten seconds before healing themselves, fading away into her pale skin,

“Put her in the chair,” Zola was speaking English and that worried her, for no one ever spoke her native language when she was around, “Strap her up,” his Swiss accent was not comforting as Edith was manhandled into a metal chair with leather belts for her wrists, ankles and torso. They were tightened to the point where the welts began to bleed.

“It is still a little early to begin this,” Zola explained, waltzing up to her and placing a rubber cap over her skull, adorned with small neurone-like digits that dug into her skin painfully, “But you are too dangerous in this state of mind,” He inserted two tiny needles delicately into her temples before covering them with ice cold patches, “You are too independent, too mindful,” Edith stared straight ahead at the grey tiled wall with her chest heaving. The guards were stood by the door, tensed as if they were expecting her to try and escape, their guns up by their chests and masks hanging off their hips. Their faces were menacing, observing every tiny move,

“Our leader wants you single minded, focused on one cause and your memories are leading you astray,” Zola sat back up on his stool behind a control panel and flicked a switch, “This will wipe you,” Edith’s eyes widened momentarily and she struggled for half a second, the straps binding her chest and the needles embedded beneath her temples preventing her from doing so. Her thoughts were reeling, just as Zola wanted and the screen to the left of him started to bleep in time with her elevated heartbeat. He twisted a dial and Edith’s body started to quake, her temples throbbing and her skin instantly dampening. She could not speak, even if she was ordered to because the muscles in her jaw had clamped together. Visions flashed before her open eyes, like a film was being shown just for a special occasion. A small girl ran across the room in a fit of tears, beating upon an imaginary door and shouting in muffed sentences. It was like someone had filled her ears with water because when the scene changed to an elderly woman in a silver dress singing, she could not hear the music playing. Edith watched helplessly as each of the visions faded into another as if the film reel had things added to it and had been edited rather badly. Things jumped, buzzed and blurred within each other, people’s faces warping into one another before disappearing completely. It was an odd feeling, like her body had released a huge amount of adrenalin and she was just feeling the aftereffects of it. Edith’s mind was weightless and her limbs felt like iron at the same time; causing her head to loll forwards on to her chest,

“Oh!” Zola was horrified as he watched Edith’s body slump in faint and he quickly turned the machine off, rushing over to his soldier and removing the needles from her skin before gently shaking her shoulders, “Soldier,” he sounded terrified and Edith could barely keep her eyes open, let alone respond to his desperate attempt to rouse her. She twitched once, just as the last scene in front of her disappeared; it was of a young woman in a navy dress, sitting in a hospital room with a frown on her face and a tube connected to the inside of her elbow.

Edith was in her bed when she woke, covered in a woollen blanket. She sat up immediately, scrubbing her eyes and running a hand through her short hair,

“ _Goddamn it_ ,” she mumbled to herself and rested her head between her knees, willing an oncoming headache away, feeling it bubble to the surface for a split second before disappearing completely. Edith stayed still and quiet for a total of twenty three seconds before the familiar sound of metal clanging signalled the unlocking of her door and it swung open.

“ _Name and number_ ,” someone barked and Edith jumped up to attention,

“ _The Crimson Soldier, project number eighteen_ ,” she recited automatically and the guard standing in the doorway nodded, clicking his heels together and saluting her. There was a pregnant pause, “ _Aren’t you supposed to return the salute_?” he asked nervously and Edith raised an eyebrow, still standing straight,

“ _That will be all_ ,” Schmidt appeared behind the guard and gave Edith a stony look, “ _There is no need for her to salute_ ,”

He waved a hand at her and two guards bound her wrists in metal cuffs, an obvious change in the way they usually restrained her. They knew she was getting stronger, and until her mind and memories were absent; she was a huge threat to the success of the programme,

“ _We will continue your training today soldier_ ,” Schmidt informed her icily, “ _Your coach has set up new targets to test out your aim_ ,” his words struck a slight nerve within Edith, her breath hitching a bit when they entered the chambered room she’d grown so used to over the months. The cuffs were removed and two guns were placed in her hands, along with several ammunition cartridges and then she was left alone. Edith sheathed the guns and peered around herself with the accuracy she was taught, zooming in on the flickering shadows and focusing on the black figures scuttling between the steel re-enforcers.Someone coughed and a breeze whistled past her right shoulder, the cool metal of a barrel pressing against her skin. The gun dragged up along her neck and steamed at her temple, as if it had already been fired.

The weapon felt heavy in her palm as she lifted it to shoot, letting out a shot before realising she had missed the assailant’s head by about a meter. The backlash of the motion jolted her bones and her lips opened in a gasp, eyes widening in horror and in realisation; she’d forgotten how to shoot. Edith’s eyes whipped up to the glass room where she knew Schmidt was watching her.

“ _Finish the mission soldier,_ ” his voice echoed around the room and Edith immediately responded, spinning around to face her previous assailant who was preparing to take aim at her heart. Bracing herself in a low squat, Edith suddenly leapt up in a swinging kick and let out a roar. Her right foot missed his head but at the very last second, Edith struck out with her left foot and he was out cold on the floor with a bleeding ear. Her only way out of this one was to fight with her strength and her wits.

Someone began running towards her, fast and very heavily, grunting with the effort and Edith let out a huff. She set out in a sprint, sliding down on to her knees just before they collided and she tackled him, spinning so she was behind him with her arms clasped tightly around the tops of his thighs. In a matter of milliseconds, Edith had completely lifted him up over her head, using her legs as leverage and throwing herself backwards so he landed right on the back of his neck. Her jaw squared at the sickening crack of her opponent’s neck breaking and she threw herself to her feet, preparing for another attacker.

There were a few gunshots to her left as she ran forwards, catching the shooter with a carefully aimed swat to his throat, kneeing him in the ribs before bringing her elbow down between his shoulder blades. She immediately dodged another round of bullets, delivering a single kick into someone’s chest; hard enough to break their ribs and puncture their lungs. Edith grimaced as a bullet tore through the skin of her forearm, still sprinting onwards to the last two shooters. The first man was pathetic at defending himself, raising his arms far too slowly to block the hand that thrust his head against a steel kneecap. The second man was rather well prepared with plenty of bullets to spit at her, forcing her to take cover behind a steel girder. A ricochet skimmed past Edith’s ear and her eyes momentarily flickered up to the glass watch room, seeing the spectators eagerly jotting down notes and taking pictures of her; one of them even had a film camera. Her fingers traced the gun on her left thigh, slowly easing it out of the holster and weighing it in her hands.

Of all the things Doctor Zola had erased from her short term memory, he just had to get rid of her gun training. Of course, anyone knew how to hold a gun and how to shoot one, it was sort of a skill everyone had deep down or at the surface. HYDRA had brought this skill to the surface for her, and then buried it right back down again. Edith’s skin was slick with sweat and her forefinger slipped on the trigger three times before she let a shot out, with closed eyes and quivering lips. There was a shriek of pain and she opened her eyes just in time to see the last man launch himself at her, neck and hands covered in blood. Her blind bullet had ripped through his left shoulder and the victim was enraged. His blood splattered in a trail as he scrambled towards her, baring his teeth menacingly. Edith felt adrenalin fill her veins suddenly, her mind dimming and lowering to the standard Schmidt wanted her at, and the edges of her vision began to turn a strange red colour. She stepped out from behind the girder and grasped the man by the wounded shoulder, depositing three bullets into his forehead; all with a tight smile on her lips.

 


	4. Chapter 4

_April 1942_

Numb. It was how Edith felt, secured with only the leather straps across her arms, torso, hips and legs. She felt her chest heaving with repression, her throat drying with the screams she forced down, the piece of rubber laying forgotten.

“ _MORE_!” Schmidt was ruthless, demanding infliction, “ _I SAID MORE_!”

“W _e cannot_ ,” the doctor said nervously, trying to calm his superior, “ _It will not go any higher_ ,”

Numb. The bullets entering her left side and thigh did not cause her pain, no emotion fuelled from her still figure. With the pressure at 100%, she felt numb.

Even with her skin closing up over the bullets, she was numb.

Silence.

Everyone was still, not daring to move, terrified of the man who had shot at their soldier, his gun smoking and his eyes wide at what little reaction he received from her.

Throwing the weapon to the side, he brought Zola’s greying face close to his,

“ _Break every bone in her body_ ,” he whispered dangerously, “ _Start the focusing sequence_ ,”

 

 

Edith was allowed to sit up the next time she was immunised; they didn’t even put the leather straps across her body. But she wasn’t given permission to speak, so Edith didn’t ask why they were letting her have such freedoms. She could hear the doctors and scientists whispering to each other in German, bringing in trays of syringes that each held a clear liquid. She said nothing as her biceps were swiped clean with iodine, the skin turning a faint orange.

“ _Each of the vials contain diseases and viruses, and I estimate that you will be immune to all by the end of the month_ ,” Doctor Zola placed a pair of white latex gloves on to his hands, gesturing for the first syringe. Edith could only nod curtly and watch as the needle easily penetrated the skin on her right arm, “ _This is the common cold,_ ” he explained as Edith slumped her shoulders and wiped her nose, feeling the slight ache of her muscles spike and then decrease suddenly. She coughed chastely three times before raising her head, signalling for the next dose. Zola inserted a second round of the clear liquid and snapped his fingers, the young nurse next to him springing into action and writing down notes,

“How do you feel soldier?” the nurse asked sweetly, in English and Edith cocked her head, slightly puzzled at the change in language, “I understand German, but I prefer not to speak it,” came the clipped explanation, “Again; how do you feel?”

“Like I have a cold,” Edith watched the nurse roll her eyes, writing down the answer. The nurse scratched gently at her hairline and tugged at her earlobe, putting the clipboard down on a nearby stool before collecting another dose of the ‘common cold’,

“ _I leave you with Miss Fritz_ ,” Zola quipped, shrugging on his coat, “I must leave you to attend urgent matters with our leader,” he told his beloved soldier, delicately drawing a finger down her neck and patting her shoulder. Edith could see the pride in his eyes when he gave her a once over, she could sense his accomplishments of having come so far with a frail Englishwoman who knew nothing about war, she could feel how happy he was her.

She could also feel the phlegm rising up in her throat.

Herr Doktor left rather abruptly when Edith began to turn pasty and shivery.

“That’s ten minutes soldier,” Nurse Fritz called out, dabbing at Edith’s sweaty brow, “You’re immune to your first virus,” Edith felt a lot better than she did eight minutes ago, when she had a runny nose, a heaving chest and aching joints, “We’ll let you eat before we start on a new one,”

They gave her two more viruses and a disease to battle before they let her be taken back to her room. The last one had been Malaria, causing her gain a tremendous fever and then she vomited spectacularly down herself. The nurses and doctors kept giving her small doses of each disease or virus until she was completely immune to them, until it took less than six minutes to overcome the symptoms and flush the pathogens out of her system. Nurse Fritz had Edith sit in a smoky room until she found clean air; she suffered through all kinds of cancer, causing weight loss, hair loss and gaunt skin; she fought through terrible infections from animal bites; she was given ghastly wounds that were left to weep, cleaning the puss and liquid that seeped after a couple of minutes; they cut down on her meals for over six months until she was nothing but skin and bones, and then they force fed her food that her body disagreed with, causing her to vomit it back up. During those months, she came to hate her new handlers; Nurse Fritz and her team. Edith despised how _English_ they were, speaking in soft voices while she coughed up blood and bile, stroking her back when she clawed at the pink sores that littered her skin during measles, brushing out what little hair the cancer left her with. It was disgusting how they were treating her, so kindly and so gently, as if she really was their dying patient and not a homicidal soldier who deserved every punishment she received.

The immunisation had taken a new path of destruction within her. Instead of inflicting intense pain through her nerves and deep within her bones, they were rotting her out from the inside with illnesses they claimed were commonly found on the warfront. Edith never cried once; not even when it took a whole day to rid her system of skin cancer; not when the guards sneered at her bluish skin and her bare scalp; not when Nurse Fritz stripped her naked and took notes of how protruding her bones were. Edith only cried on the night when Herr Doktor returned to her, when he shouted menacing words at Nurse Fritz for defiling his creation, when new guards swarmed in and hounded the young woman with fists, when Edith was given a gun and told to shoot the betrayer. Schmidt had seen how shaky she was, how weak she had become and he had urged her to give the woman hours of pain, to shoot between the ribs on her right side so she would slowly bleed out.

Edith complied and it took three hours for Nurse Fritz’s screams to die down.

She heard Herr Doktor weeping that night, stumbling through the corridors with wails and howls of how weak the soldier was, how much she had failed him.

But the next time Schmidt sent her on a fifteen mile run in the snow, Edith found that she didn’t shiver or sniffle or cough; she didn’t return to the finish with hypothermia or pneumonia, and she couldn’t help but feel a little thankful for Nurse Fritz.

 

 

_July 1942_

Edith was in the chamber, as per usual at six o’clock in the evening, to continue with her weaponry training. She had been monitored over the past two months, during the strengthening of her immune system. She had not been allowed to touch a gun for over three months because the coaches and Schmidt did not deem her fit or capable enough to resume training. Herr Doktor was pinned down and blamed for corrupting the soldier, having been told that his little experiment had set them back several weeks.

It was only now that they decided to let Edith handle a pistol, a Nazi Luger. Again, her coach told her to stand naturally and then corrected Edith’s stance. Of course, the coach was a different woman, slightly more petit than the rest but she had a big mouth and several gold teeth which she bared every time Edith did something incorrectly. The coach pointed some ten meters away at more targets, and Edith tried so hard to remember to be prepared for the jolt after each shot.

It was a difficult evening of shooting round after round at targets ten, twenty, thirty meters away. Edith’s skill returned promptly after a person tied to a chair was set at the far end of the chamber, a bag over their head and their shoulders shaking with sobs. There was no sneering or mocking from the onlookers; just whispered orders to kill the betrayer.

Edith shot five bullets; two of them tearing through the victim’s shoulder, one severing the artery in their right upper thigh, and one flying into their neck with such a force that the body was thrown backwards, crushing the chair with their dead weight. Edith was glad they didn’t survive, tucking the gun away on her hip and standing to attention for her next orders,

“ _Dismissed soldier_ ,” Schmidt’s voice echoed out through the chamber and Edith nodded once, squaring her shoulders and marching off, swinging her arms tensely like they taught her to.

In every way that HYDRA was evil, they were in some ways kind. Edith had her own room, and she was able to shower before bed and after every run. Granted it was a grotty shower that was rarely cleaned and was sometimes used by the stray females at the facility, but it still produced warm water and soap was provided. Her showers were always quick, for convenience, just in case Schmidt or Zola needed her urgently for whatever reason.

This time was no different; get in, soap up, rinse and get out again. Having little hair was an added bonus and she rarely washed it, preferring the greasy so she could slick it out of her face.

Except this time _was_ different, for when Edith got out of the shower, there was a man on her bed with his hands folded in his lap. He looked up at her with wide eyes, which were a grimy shade of green and he held up her towel,

“ _Speak_ ,” he commanded, standing up and towering over her,

“ _Get out_ ,” Edith felt nervous under his predatory gaze, “ _You’re not supposed to be here_ ,” the man chuckled and threw her towel on the bed, resting his hands on her shoulders, “ _Don’t touch me_ ,”

“ _You don’t give me the order soldier_ ,” his fingers brushed over her breasts, “ _Do as I say_ ,” he kissed her gently and when Edith did not respond, he backhanded her. The man kissed her again, harder this time and squeezed every part of her skin that he could get his hands on. Edith stayed still, unsure of the situation and unsure of what to do; the man had told her to obey him but he was not her handler, and he was not a guard. The man was sandy haired and very tall, with broad shoulders and freckly skin, dressed in a pair of oily overalls. He was big, muscles bulging when he pushed her down to her knees in front of him and forced her mouth open; but he was little as well, whimpering and groaning, digging his bony fingers into her cheeks. Edith knew she was stronger, much stronger but she still didn’t know what to do, what to say if she could even speak at all.

“ _Keep your mouth shut!_ ,” he hissed when she attempted to object, “ _Lay still_ ,” Edith reluctantly obeyed, staring up at the ceiling blankly as the man adjusted himself between her thighs. He was narrow hipped and if she was to squeeze her legs together, those hips would surely shatter. She placed her arms over her chest and shut her eyes. The greasy man was panting against her neck, rutting furiously against her, “ _You can’t do anything, and you can’t even tell Schmidt about this; I forbid you to tell anyone about us_ ,” when he grinned down at her, Edith noticed that he was missing several of his teeth and the ones that were left were yellowing with decay.

The man roared out once, stilling completely with his head lolling to one side before dragging himself away, redoing his overalls and giving her a smirk,

“ _Our little secret_ ,” he kissed her forcefully once more and left, not noticing that Edith still had her eyes screwed shut and was shuddering slightly. She waited a couple of minutes before blindly reaching a hand down to feel herself, letting out a pitiful sob.

 

The man returned the next night, and the night after that, and all the nights after those; forcing himself upon her, kissing her, touching her. He left Edith after about twenty minutes, zipping himself up and giving her one last embrace, leaving her freezing and confused. He had her the same way, forcing her to the floor for a while before nestling between her legs, chewing dirtily against her breasts. He seemed to enjoy it and each time he bent down to stroke her tear stained cheeks, he whispered how good she was not to tell anyone. Edith, after the sixth time, started to block out his constant jamming, his slapping and writhing, staring up at the mouldy spot on the ceiling with glassy eyes. Those sensations she felt roiling beneath her skin the first few times were nothing by the seventh; his advances had made her immune to forced pleasure, and he didn’t seem to mind. He knew when she was vulnerable, when she was just exiting the shower and wrapping herself in a holey towel. He muttered orders not to expose their secret, stroking her hair and moving her mouth when she refused to. He was cruel when he left her shivering and shining in his sweat, with a fist muffling her sobs and a hand delicately protecting between her thighs, curled up against the sheets that were stained and smelling of him.

But it made her more ruthless than ever, having to be sedated after each hand-to-hand combat session because her partner was either not coping or dead, still shooting even after the cartridge had clipped, running those fifteen milers faster and in a shorter time, performing more physical exercises than she was ordered and relishing in the fist shaped punishment she received because of it.The new feelings of self-destruction caused her vision to constantly have a red hue, seeing potential targets or attackers around every corner, mapping out escape routes even though the exits were clearly marked already. Edith received more punishments, never more brutal, but she was becoming reckless with disobeying orders, especially from Schmidt himself.

No one saw how degraded she was, how filthy she felt, how low she was stooping in order to stomp away what was occurring each night.

Until the coach with gold teeth asked for her to have extra rifle training one Friday night in August, then questions were asked.

“You are low soldier,” the coach was Danish and her accent was very thick, “Disobeying us and seeing red?” the K43 sniper rifle Edith had been practising with was slung over her shoulder and she let out a tiny sigh,

“There is a man,” instantly, the coach tensed, “he visited me,” Edith blew out a whimper, grinding her jaw as to not look weak in front of her handler, “kissed me, touched me, gave himself to me,”

The coach ran a hand through her short red hair and asked, “Against your will?”

Edith didn’t know what to say. Each night he returned for her and she let him do as he wished, though her wishes were that he would stop.

“Was he forceful? Did you agree to him?” the coach asked again, upon Edith’s silence, “Has he been coming back?” the coach asked and Edith gave a short nod, “Every night?” another nod,

“I feel dirty,” Edith’s voice was tiny, “And I do not know what to do when he comes to me,” the coach rubbed her face and pinched her nose, thinking of what to do, “He tells me to keep quiet and I do not know whether to obey him or not,” Edith shuddered and let out an involuntary hiccup,

The coach immediately asked for details and a description of the man, promising Edith that he would never visit her again, promising her that she would get revenge in some way or another.

 

 

“ _This is the one_?” it was September, it was snowing but Edith was not shivering or sniffling like the others around her. She was dressed in her uniform; the jacket, the trousers, the boots, the holster containing the pistols. They were stood outside the building; Schmidt, Edith, the coach and six guards, all facing a tall man wearing overalls and a smug look on his face.

She had seen him just two nights ago, and she had told him that the guards were searching for him. He had slapped her around, kicking her naked body until she bled, and then forcing her to the ground once more to perform their nightly ritual. Edith screamed and kicked, her face being forced into the damp mattress while he rutted into her from behind, taking a knife from his pocket an cutting the skin on her back to ribbons. He managed to take her twice rather brutally before seven or so guards swarmed into the room, taking the man away from her. The coach had entered the room a couple of minutes after the event and spoke to Edith quietly, informing her of the execution in the morning before making sure the blood was absent completely from her skin.

The knife was the only detail Schmidt did not know about, neither the coach nor Edith wanted to upset him any further.

The superior was standing next to her that afternoon, holding his own personal pistol out for her to use, “ _You are sure?_ ” Edith nodded stiffly and took the gun, aiming at the green eyed man’s head, her eyes narrowing when he gave her a sneer,

“ _I told you not to tell anyone we fucked_!” he shouted and Edith squared her shoulders, grinding her jaw, “ _You were mine! I claimed you for my purposes only_!” his words were spiteful, a few of the guards sneaking furtive glances to see how the soldier was reacting. Edith was still and calm, the gun raised and aimed for his head, “ _I gave you orders soldier_!” the man screeched and Schmidt let out a growl at the words,

“ _You are not my handler_ ,” her snarl chilled everybody’s skin and she pulled the trigger, his body jolting and smacking against the wall behind him from the force of the bullet entering his forehead. Blood seeped into the snow, curling around her boots as if it was a snake coiling around its prey,

“ _Crimson_ ,” her name came as shock and Schmidt laid a hand on her shoulder, “ _That is the punishment for those who lay unwanted hands upon you, no one in this facility is to touch you for their pleasure without my permission_ ,” Crimson felt touched at his words, giving him a small understanding smile but the action was not returned in the way she hoped. The pistol was snatched from her hands and pressed into her shoulder, the bullet ripping the muscle and slamming into the snow behind her. Crimson let out a cry and dropped to the ground, focussing on healing the muscle before closing the wound. A knee smashed into her chin, and then a boot shunted against her chest, throwing her backwards,

“ _And this is your punishment for not reporting the events sooner_ ,” another bullet went through her other shoulder. She was sprawled on the ground, the fresh flakes sticking to her hair and cheeks, “ _Do not expect any special treatment because you were force to do a sinful act_ ,” Schmidt lifted her by the neck so her feet were dangling three inches from the ground, “ _You have murdered by force, I do not see rape as any different_ ,” he let her go, watching her rub where his fist had tightened against her skin, “ _Your immunisation will help you forget this incident_ ,” he was suddenly gentle again, sentimental towards her with open palms, “ _If such events should reoccur; you will see, hear and taste but you will not feel anything – no sensations, no emotions_ ,” a guard cuffed her hands behind her back, “ _The erasing of emotions makes one rather more efficient_ ,”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a bit short lol

The room Crimson was placed in seemed strange to her, calmer even, than all the other rooms she had visited. Of course, there was a chair adorned with metal cuffs and leather straps to hold her down but on the headrest was a metal brace with two rather large needles pointing inwards, where ones neck would be. There were several monitors around the chair, as well as two IV lines, two oxygen tanks and a mask. Crimson was forced to sit, struggling without a reason to and gnashing her teeth when the guards tightened the straps across her bare chest just a little too much. There was a window opposite her, where _Herr Doktor_ , Schmidt and several other men were watching her, some sitting reclined with champagne flutes in their hands and some pressed right up against the glass to get a closer look at what was about to happen.

Crimson leant back, eyeing the needles either side of her neck, and the ones she hadn’t previously seen on the contraption above her head; they were barely touching her temples. Three female doctors entered the room; two with clipboards and another with a tray of multi-coloured liquids, all of them were very young and had very recent bruising over their faces. One bent down and placed the mask directly over Crimson’s mouth and nose with shaky hands, while another inserted the drip into the crook of her elbow. Someone somewhere started talking, obviously explaining what was going to happen and Crimson blanked it out, staring at a crack in the ceiling.

It wasn’t until the metal contraption was brought down over her head did she react in anyway; and only her eyes flicked dangerously to the woman applying the contraption. It was a tight metal band across her forehead, connecting to another that pressed against the crown of her head. Several patches leading to the monitors were attached to her bare scalp and just below her temples, two clamps suddenly closing on each of her biceps and Crimson could feel needles piercing the skin from each of the clamps. One of the doctors selected a vile that contained a blue liquid and screwed it into one of the IV lines, the one that the most chords were connected to,

“ _This will give you powerful hallucinations_ ,” one of the doctors explained gruffly, rubbing her throat which looked rather raw, “ _It will cure you of all sadness, depression, mourning, misery and hope_ ,” Edith flexed her muscles slightly at the last word and it didn’t go unnoticed,

“ _Hope is what is keeping you from submitting soldier_ ,” Schmidt told her, his voice eerily quiet coming through speakers, “ _We must cure you of it first_ ,”

He nodded and the doctor flicked a switch, all of the needles stabbing her neck and temples simultaneously, and causing her to let out an involuntary cry. The blue vile suddenly emptied into a bag to dilute before traveling up each tube and entering her body like lightening. The whirling of the machine behind Crimson started to fade as the two tanks were opened and ‘knock-out’ gas filed her lungs. She let her eyelids droop and her breathing evened out, every tendon and muscle relaxing as she drifted into a state of unconsciousness.

_There was a man standing in front of her, wearing a dark suite with patches over his elbows. His face was sullen and shadowed, hands clasped behind him and a cigarette hanging lazily from his lips,_

_“Eddie,” the name sounded familiar, “I’m so sorry sweetheart,” his voice was gruff and Crimson_ _didn’t recognise it immediately, stepping forwards to get a closer look at him, “Ellie was a wonderful girl,”_

_Oh. Her eyes widened upon realising where she was and who she was with. She was at a funeral, wearing a grey woollen dress, a cardigan and a pair of leather gloves. The man was her neighbour from across the road. They were in a graveyard. Edith was her name and Ellie was her sister._

_Oh God. Crimson_ _lurched forwards, pushing through the small crowd of grievers and falling to her knees beside a newly polished marble stone. She’d forgotten about her sister, and the car crash, and the blood, and the man who tried to help but only made things worse, and the kind mother who called for an ambulance, and the blood, and the crying and screaming and terror. She couldn’t even remember what Ellie looked like, what her full name was, how old she was. It was gut wrenching how awful she felt, clawing at her eyes and trying to will the tears to fall._

 _But none came; only retching sobs and dry hiccups. She screamed and tore at her hair, spinning around and finding that she was now alone, and finding that the stone had suddenly aged several years. It was cracked and scratched, the roses someone had put on the ground were withered, and the marble was a grimy green colour. It was raining, hailing almost and Crimson_ _let out a wail._

_The scene hazed and colours swam in front of her eyes like a thick fog was closing in around her. A new room came into view, small and plain with only a wardrobe and a bed, a small crack mirror hanging beside a window that had mouldy net curtains. A woman was lying on the bed, face buried into the shabby pillow and muffled cries filled the damp space. She was clutching a small frame that contained a yellowing photo of a beautiful little girl, no older than eleven with curly hair and a bright smile. There was also a letter thrown haphazardly on the floor next rubbish bin. She didn’t recognise the woman or the girl in the picture, but the room and the letter came like a punch to the gut, causing her to huff out when she read her name scrawled in neat handwriting._

_It was a letter of condolence, from the same man Crimson_ _had fleetingly seen in the last vision. He told her, in the letter, that he’d loved Ellie and was struggling without knowing that Edith_ _was struggling too. The woman on the bed gave a howl of mourn, curling up tight before stretching out and scrubbing at her leaking eyes. Again, Crimson_ _was punched with the fact that she was looking into her own grieving face reclining on the bed, clutching a picture of her dead sister._

The people watching her only saw her hands clawing at her chest and rubbing her eyes, her bottom lip wobbling as if she were about to start crying. The nurses monitoring her took notes and adjusted the gas mask over her chin, inserting a second vial of blue liquid as to ensure Crimson’s immunisation of these particular emotions.

They took the mask away and removed the clamps, needles and IV lines from Crimson’s body after three solid hours. Crimson’s eyes snapped open immediately and lurched forwards out of the chair, falling to her knees when she found her legs too exhausted to keep up her weight,

“ _You will eat now, and then we will continue_ ,” she nodded obediently, feeling strangely void. Crimson’s chest felt heavy and thick, and it was as if her mind was simply fuzzing round the edges, disappearing ever so slowly. She found that those sad feelings, the ones she felt when they told her of what was to happen next, they just didn’t surface like they used to.

“ _How do you feel soldier?_ ” one nurse asked, crouching down next to her with a clipboard at the ready, “ _You have permission to speak_ ,” Crimson’s eyes flicked briefly to the men sitting behind the window, watching and waiting,

“ _I feel strange_ ,” her voice was parched and gruff, as if those sobs she had emitted in her hallucination were real, “ _I cannot bring about such emotions_ ,” and Crimson tried to feel something of woe or misery or mourn. She brought up loose memories of her dead sister, and of her family back in London, of that one man who had promised her love and broke it, of her mother’s funeral, of the results for her blood tests; all she felt was white and bleak.

Numb. Immune; just how they wanted her.

“ _Eat_ ,” a tray of food was placed before her, “ _You have two minutes_ ,” there was nothing fancy like she usually got; it was only a banana and two chicken breasts. She ate and forced herself back into the chair, settling herself more comfortably so the needles that next penetrated her skin slid in smoothly, without a bruise. A red vial was connected to the IV and Crimson was told this was for all her anger, rage, frustration, disgust however; she would only have this dose once because anger was what would fuel all her actions in the near future. Anger made her strong.

Again, the clamps tightened against her biceps and the gas was given, sending her into another deep sleep and into another very intense hallucination.

They did this initially for seven days, sometimes focusing completely on one vial because the particular emotions returned too quickly. They continued for months after the raw emotions were erased, wiping the smaller and more complex ones when they resurfaced at random points. The hallucinations Crimson was induced with began to get altered by her nurses; people she knew to be family became twisted and she saw them as enemies, new and fictional figures were introduced and scenes were created to give her a false sense of security in those who were immunising her. Crimson lost all sense of happiness, hope, love and sadness, the vials being created to get rid of everything that was not vital to being a weapon; utter loyalty, unbridled bloodlust, white hot anger and uncontrollable determination. There was no sympathy when she shot prisoners or human targets, she felt no pleasure or humiliation when the men came to her room unattended, she gave no lies, no hope, and no tears, and she showed no such mercy to anyone.


	6. Chapter 6

_September 1942_

Crimson was used to the missions they gave her, to extract or observe within Germany, Austria, Poland or France; just in and out quickly with little to no fuss. This was the first time Crimson was being sent to Russia, the first time she had the orders to eliminate. Her services had been offered to the KGB to take out a political enemy of both the Soviet’s and to HYDRA, and she was told during the briefing to leave no witnesses. All she was told on the train to a city in the Eastern sector, was that the target was a traitor and needed eliminating; she was given the location and a strict time period within which she had to complete the mission and return to a KGB safe house to await transport back to Austria. Her uniform was updated and she was given a thick coat because it was much colder in Russia, a pair of goggles and a packet of cigarettes. She was only allowed to smoke on her missions and she was never told why.

They took her on a train much faster and smoother than any she had been on before, cuffing her and hissing orders for her continued silence, seating her in a passenger chair and leaving her alone for a majority of the almost two day journey. Crimson slept peacefully throughout, the quiet hum of the train speeding over the tracks lulling her into a dreamless doze and she was only woken by food, drink or her bladder. When they arrived at the station, a guard kicked her awake and took her off the train, far away from the station, pausing behind a nearly empty coffee house and loosening the restraints before giving her last minute orders to target, to kill and to return within forty eight hours. The guard gave her a manila file and turned away,

“ _Heil HYDRA_ ,” his voice carried in the wind and sent a shiver down her spine, ducking into an alley to read the file. The target was a Socialist who had been recently promoting Western ideas, which was strictly against both the Soviets and HYDRA, and so Crimson immediately labelled the target as a betrayer of the state. Her mind flickered back to the most recent execution of a betrayer, a prostitute within the Facility who had pictures of British soldiers, and who had been caught sending telegrams to the American opposition group. She had been a tiny thing, only skin and bones and rosy cheeks and sticky thighs from having been taken straight from service; stood against the wall naked with tears rolling down her nose. The woman hadn’t begged or pleaded for mercy when Crimson raised the gun; only bit her lip when the trigger was pulled and had not cried out when the first bullet hit her mid-riff. Betrayers always got two shots, one to cause them the most pain and one to snuff out that traitorous light. Crimson had then shot the prostitute in the left side of her chest, puncturing the lung and the heart. It gave her a solid structure on how to eliminate this Socialist target, shoot them twice and return to the safe house, and then to Austria. Crimson looked up towards the end of the alley, watching cars spray grey sludge onto the sidewalk and on to the feet of people walking by. There were too many people around to even think about drawing her gun, so she tucked the file away and set off down the alley, away from the street and from the normality of civilisation.

The first cigarette Crimson smoked was stood outside her target’s apartment block, flicking ash into a plant pot that was iced over. She could see movement in the windows of the fifth floor, the curtains rustled and the shutters were drawn as the lamps in the street flicked on with weak flames. A car pulled up beside her and Crimson retreated into the dark lobby of the building, turning her nose up at the strong smell of urine and oil. She began to climb the stairs, slowly and silently, her ears detecting even the tiniest sounds and her eyes followed anything that moved. Crimson’s fingers brushed the gun on her thigh as a door up ahead opened and a small child was pushed out on to the landing. It was a girl, no older than ten and wearing a thin dress that seemed to be covered in a sauce of some kind. The child sat down outside the door and covered her ears, squeezing her eyes shut and giving Crimson the opportunity to slip past undetected. She didn’t look back at the girl, not even when an animalistic roar sounded up the stairs only to be followed by the unmistakeable sound of a child sobbing. She just blocked it out, climbing to the fifth floor and sitting on a rusted bench opposite a door with scratch marks by the lock. The light was on, filtering through the gap at the bottom and she could hear people talking inside. She hadn’t been told that there would be more than one person, she hadn’t been told which person was her primary target and which one the witness was. The KGB had simply said ‘take out the betrayer and return with no witnesses’, similar to all her pervious missions.

“ _There was no bread today,_ ” the language was Russian but the accent was American and it made her clench her fists subconsciously, “ _Helena got some but she was early,_ ” the bleak conversation continued through the thin walls for most of the evening, complaining of Communism and planning their route to England, to the West where they would be free. Crimson stayed alert, listening to them and smoking her cigarettes, ignoring the people who passed her drunk, drugged or half naked. It wasn’t until past midnight that the light turned off behind the door but she still had to wait to be sure that the targets were completely asleep before she attempted anything. She heard an alarm go off somewhere in the building and soft snores caused her ears to spasm. There was a knife in her hand before she her brain could catch up with her. Crimson manoeuvred the blade in the lock and she let out a small huff when the door clicked, swinging open silently and catching on the stained carpet of the hallway. Crimson paused to listen and carefully shut the door behind her, creeping forward and making sure to keep to the shadows. It was a small apartment and the windows had no blinds, letting in an orange light from the street below; there was a table and two chairs, a dusty couch and a radio was sat under one window. Crimson could smell the damp in the bathroom from where she was crouched outside the room of the traitor, but there was a third door directly opposite which was an obstacle that she had not been counting on.

“ _There are offspring_ ,” she could hear two sets of breaths and one of them murmured something in English, but Crimson paid no attention. She entered the small bedroom and stood over a slumbering man who was tucked neatly behind a thinning woman with grey hair, his meaty arm wrapped loosely around her waist.

A gun would be too loud and would instantly cause the children to wake up, along with all of the building. Although this was Russia, spontaneous gunshots in a largely family occupied area would have potentially problematic consequences. She had performed interrogations with knives before; tracing the victim’s veins gently and nicking their pulse points, delicately carving patterns into their eyelids and lips. It was natural for her to cause her victim pain, to render them unidentifiable or unrecognisable.

So when Crimson slit the throat of the woman, she launched herself on to the body of the waking man and covered his mouth. The wife was shuddering, seizing and flailing around with blood spurting from her neck, dying the bed clothes red. Crimson could feel the husband screaming beneath her, fighting with all his might and crying pitifully. A second hand was placed over his neck and he started gasping for breath, prevented by the glove over his mouth and nose. Crimson squeezed her thighs and five of the husband’s ribs shattered. The knife was back in her hand and she ripped open the flimsy night shirt, slicing through skin like soft butter, slashing above the heart and up the neck, keeping her hand tightly over the husband’s mouth so no one would hear him scream. Crimson savagely twisted the knife and drew a jagged line across the husband’s windpipe, all movements ceasing instantly.

She sat up, wiping her brow of the blood and cleaned the knife on her trousers. The wife lay with one hand reached out to her husband, a look of terror permanently etched on to her face and Crimson stood, decidedly ignoring the mess she had made because her mission wasn’t to clean up. There was no need to worry about what happened to the victims now that they had been successfully eliminated. There was a window opposite the bed and Crimson opened it, letting the freezing winter air in. She didn’t look back as she leapt out, startling a stray cat when she landed with an echoing crack.

 

 

Crimson handed a gun to the man who greeted her at the door of the safe house, as her handlers had taught her to. If there was someone else in the same room as her, they had to be armed so they could take her down at any given time. He was surprised but took it all the same, gesturing for her to enter with an uneasy smile. The building was cavernous with long corridors and mirrors that hid white rooms, heavy doors concealed piano music and the sound of people dancing, fighting and laughing. Crimson glanced up, noticing several small girls standing at the top of a grand stair case and they were staring at her with wide, awestruck eyes. All clothed in grey dresses, Crimson could easily see the outline of pistols on their hips and she scowled. The smallest girl, the one with fiery red hair dropped down several steps to peer through the banisters to watch Crimson pass and she grinned a little, as if she knew what had just occurred.

“ _Sir, your soldier has arrived,_ ” the door man directed Crimson into a lavish dining room and handed her back the gun, “ _And your car is here as well_ ,”

Schmidt’s second in command stood smoking a cigar by the window with one hand resting on his swelling belly. She stood slightly to the side, staring straight ahead and ignoring the blood that was starting to dry on her face. Her commander scuffed out his cigar and placed it into his top pocket,

“ _Excellent_ ,” came the reply and he stalked past Crimson, “ _Mission report_ ,” she followed him out of the room with quick strides,

“ _Targets eliminated_ ,”

“ _Targets? There was only supposed to be one,_ ” his hiss was almost venomous,

“ _There was a female, the mission was compromised_ ,” she didn’t know why she didn’t mention the children. Her commander pulled out a pair of cuffs and fitted them on her before opening the car door,

“ _I suppose you were told not to leave witnesses_ ,” he mused and sat opposite her, making sure that at least two of the four guards were between them, “ _But you finished in the set time and took out the right target, I would say mission accomplished soldier_ ,” the car started and the man relit his cigar, rolling down the window to let out the smoke. Crimson could see the brightening sky as the car wound its way to the station and she closed her eyes for a minute, imagining the moment when the two children would wake up and go in to their parents’ room. She frowned as shrieks filled her ears and visions of mangled bodies flashed before her eyes.

 

 

 

_December 1942_

They were teaching her something new. Something Crimson had never thought about doing before, she didn’t even know if she was capable of doing it.

“Pull your elbow up! Here see?” the newest coach was a male but his hair was long and tied in a ponytail, with bright blue eyes and several rings hanging from his right ear. He was also English and did not speak any German, “The wrist is where the most power comes from, flick it like this,” he was demonstrating the odd move to her and the knife hit the target right in the middle, five meters away.

Crimson didn’t respond and copied his actions, her memory suddenly becoming useful. She mirrored him perfectly and the weapon hit her own target dead centre,

“Congratulations soldier,” the coach gave her a smile that was not returned, “Now you’ve got that technique under your belt, you can throw from any angle,” Crimson nodded and pulled another thin, lightweight blade from her belt, flipping it in her palms a few times while she worked out the best stance for throwing a knife. Of course, they had trained her in combat with a knife and given her one to always keep on her body, situated on the inside of her left boot. She could slit throats and nick cheeks, cut off fingers and slowly remove fingernails; she knew where to stab someone fatally and where would cause the most internal bleeding, and therefore the most pain. Although Crimson was beautifully gifted with guns, especially sniper rifles, she found that a knife got her up close with the opponent; it felt a little more personal.

The coach had started off with a lecture on the dynamics, the physics and the typical way to throw a knife. He was obviously new to training her and the lecture was a complete waste of time when Crimson completed a bullseye on the first try. She would have felt smug, if she could. Her left hand came across her body at lightning speed, the knife again hitting the bullseye.

The coach was surprised at her action, stepping back and glancing up at the observing room hesitantly. A voice filled the room, the language only being understood by Crimson,

“ _He was a mistake, he is hesitant and cowardly_ ,” it was Polish, “ _Terminate him_ ,” Crimson nodded at her orders, wondering if she should feel something in the moment. Love maybe? The coach was a handsome man but he had only been with her for two days. Hesitance? Sympathy? Mercy?

That word angered her and a third knife was realised from her grasp, faster than the coach had anticipated. He shuddered slightly, looking down at where the blade was sticking from his chest and he touched the hilt with shaking fingers,

“I don’t understand what I’ve done,” he whimpered quietly, eyes returning to Crimson’s blank expression and staring at the gun trained to his head, “See sense soldier, I was just training you as a person, as a human,”

Human seemed like a funny word to Crimson as she pulled the trigger, replaying her coach’s last words in her head as she stepped over his body to exit the chamber. Was she human? Was she _still_ human in fact? They called her a weapon and a creation, the Crimson Soldier; those words didn’t sound human to her.


	7. Chapter 7

Crimson was allowed a shower before the next plan, which as usual was kept classified. The water was cold against her skin, as it had been for the last month. It should have seemed odd but Crimson merely got on with things, even if everyone seemed slightly wearier around her. Her emotional immunisation was put off until the last resort nowadays and there were only ever two people watching her immunisations, never very experienced doctors and they caused bruises to blossom over Crimson’s skin every time they inserted the needles. She hadn’t seen Zola in over three weeks and even Schmidt’s daily visits were becoming less frequent. She thought that maybe they’d found someone else who they were training, someone better than her that would win any battle they were faced with, someone more submissive than her. Crimson felt the twinges of neglect as she dressed herself slowly, rubbing down her chin length hair. No one was telling her much, her coaches were silly and inexperienced, the doctors forgot to write notes down, the guards were sloppy and the other staffs were ignoring her completely. Crimson didn’t know how to react or how to feel, it was all so foreign to her.

Three guards came for her at six o’clock and she assumed they were taking her for more training, but they led her towards another set of chambers, pressing her into a new room that was unlike anything she had ever seen. It had dull green tiles covering the walls, floor and ceiling; there was not a window in sight, except for a pane of glass on the furthest wall where she knew people were sitting behind, watching her. There was a dingy mattress on the floor with one blanket and one pillow, a table backed up against the wall closest to her and what looked a reclined metal chair in the middle of the room. It too was rather futuristic looking, with flat arm rests and a brace to hold her neck, and no bindings to hold her down. This wasn’t an immunisation or a wiping, it was something different; something new,

“ _Sit in the chair_ ,” Schmidt’s voice echoed from a speaker located in the top right corner, frightening her almost, “ _Sit in the chair and relax, we have a lot of work to do_ ,”

Crimson did as she was told, a middle aged woman fixing the neck brace into position with shaking fingers. She looked at the second doctor cleaning the inside of her wrists with an orange fluid, he was younger than her and he looked traumatised, his limbs skinny and face gaunt. The man gave her a small smile, raising his hand to show her the piece of rubber that had spent so much time being bitten, asking her if she wanted it.

Crimson squinted down at him and he shrunk away, as if being told off and she wondered why he offered it to her. Didn’t he understand? She felt no pain so there was no need to force down screams. Zola suddenly emerged from the shadows by the door and Crimson wondered when he had entered, scolding herself for not noticing his arrival. He held a large syringe in his gloved hands, sanitising the needle and removing any air from the compartment. It contained a blue substance that glowed beneath the light and it seemed to move like a fluid, whitish streaks whirling around like clouds on a breezy day.

The female doctor reappeared to her left with the same syringe and they both tapped her wrist a few times, her already bulging veins turning blue as they rose even more,

“ _What are you doing?_ ” Crimson knew she had spoken without permission but she wanted to know, and because she was not getting any answers; she wanted so dearly to feel scared. No pain erupted as the needles were pushed into her skin, “ _What is this?_ ”

“ _Silence!_ ” Schmidt’s voice was booming over the speaker, “ _This is the final plan soldier, the final experiment to turn you into the weapon we have spent so long designing. My image will be real in a few short hours and you will bring me the war I have always wanted_ ,” his explanation should have frightened her, but Crimson simply bowed her head and settled into the chair more comfortably. Her eyes followed _Herr Doktor_ and his assistant out of the room before directing her gaze to her own skin, watching with an inkling of marvel written across her face. The blue fluid that had been emptied into her veins stayed at the surface of her skin for a moment before disappearing into her blood system. Crimson tipped her head back to enjoy the peace for a few minutes, her fists relaxing on the arm rests.

Then the panting started, her chest heaving like she had started to sprint for miles. Her throat closed up in exhaustion and there was a cramping in her left breast, the muscle twitching and seizing. Crimson bared her teeth and suddenly wished for the mouth guard, glancing down at her chest and letting out a small howl when she saw the skin and veins of that area glow a sickly blue colour. Her skin grew damp and her hairline was suddenly wet with sweat, one that chilled her to the bones.

Crimson could feel her heart straining under the pressure, each contraction suddenly taking up so much energy and her limbs went numb, head lolling to one side. Her eyes threatened to roll to the back of her skull, eyelids drooping every so often. Crimson moaned quietly to herself, struggling to stay conscious and steady.

Then her heart woke up again, beating so fast and so violently that it sounded like one continuous thrum to her ears, causing her fingers to twitch and her skull to feel as if someone was drilling into it. Crimson hunched forwards in discomfort, the pain dulling so it felt rather like an angry itch that no such scratching could cure. She clawed at the brace around her neck, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe and the metal shattered beneath her fingers. Falling to her knees, she clutched her head and kneaded at her chest, trying to find some way to calm her body. She was buzzing, vibrating with an intense amount of energy that had seemingly come out of nowhere.

There was no relief and no comfort from her superiors. She was their subject now, their experiment.

Then she felt the changes, quick and all of a sudden; her blood roiling beneath her skin for mere milliseconds before cooling quickly, freezing her insides and pumping around her body faster than she could think was possible. Her skin was mapped with pulsing blue, her lips darkening to a sickly purple and her skin paling. Crimson suddenly felt as though she had been running for miles and miles, her breath coming out in quick and harsh pants that caused her throat and lungs to sting painfully. She knelt on the floor with her head in her hands, her body jolting with spine tingling spasms every few seconds. The spectators could see her shoulders shaking from the effort of keeping herself upright, her spine was jutting up through her shirt and they heard her hoarse pants as if she were breathing into their ears.

But her body was blurring, going somewhat fuzzy around the edges; papers that had fallen from the table were fluttering in the absence of a wind, the metal instruments that the doctors had left were rattling in their dishes, the lights were flickering, the tiles around her legs cracking, and the black glass threatened to shatter from the sudden pressure it was placed under,

“ _Is this to be expected_?” Schmidt asked quietly to the over-excited doctor and he gave a little shrug of his shoulders, utterly speechless at what his creation was achieving.

The whole room began to quake, lights flickering and clanging against each other, dust falling from the ceiling, the tables moving by themselves, chairs rolling away from their owners, people trying to steady themselves upon one another.

And then her body disappeared, collapsing into nothing.

The shaking stopped. Everything was silent, people peering around the room with equally anxious faces, wondering if their defences had kept her at bay, kept her within the room, kept her on a leash so she could never escape,

“ _Where is she?_ ” Schmidt hissed and Zola’s face turned grey with nervousness, looking towards where his creation had vanished, letting out a high pitched gasp when she suddenly reappeared in the corner of the rom. The tiles around her body shattered and fell to the floor. Her hands dug into the concrete wall like it was a sheet and she crumbled it in her fingers, panting with a sheen of sweat covering her body, “ _Stop bleeding soldier_ ,” Schmidt commanded over the speaker and her eyes switched to him, a look of intense fear reflecting in the window back at her. Crimson made to step forwards, to stand to attention before him but she stumbled, unable to hold up her own weight. She put her hands up in front of her face as a reflex to protect herself but before she hit the floor, her body disappeared again.

It was an odd sensation and frankly, Crimson did not like it one bit. She compared it to being brutally suffocated for several moments, her body being pressed from all sides, as if she was being pushed through a very confining tube. Once her eyes had grown accustomed to the sensation, she was surprised to see images spinning and swirling around her so quickly that if she didn’t recognise an image it disappeared from sight. Crimson saw flashes of green, red and black, and shadows pressing against her. It didn’t hurt at all, although the swirling and spinning of each image and colour made her vomit the next time she reappeared, sat back in the chair. As she wiped her mouth, she could hear the arguing of her spectators and all of them were saying very different things. They were saying that she was too dangerous, to unstable to be funded, to weaponised for their liking; but some were congratulating Schmidt with his scheme, asking if the serum was replicable.

Crimson still felt sick and she was still shaking very violently. She assumed it was shock, something that was less than familiar and she went to wrap a blanket around her shoulders in a feeble attempt to calm herself. Hours went past and her stomach stopped roiling but the shivering continued and Crimson was getting more and more puzzled. Was it a symptom? Was she supposed to feel ill? Or was it an emotion she had been told to block? Was she scared? Fearful or angry? Upset? She didn’t know what they meant anymore, she was immune to all of it.

Numb.

A doctor was pushed into the room with a clipboard and a pile of clean scrubs,

“ _She won’t hurt you_ ,” the doctor was assured over the speaker, “ _She can’t_ ,”

Crimson’s throat dried at the words, her breathing elevated as the door was locked behind the petrified doctor. It was the same one who had offered her the mouth guard before the final plan, except he seemed smaller now, he was weaker to her, and he was _feeling_.

He took a small step forward, causing Crimson’s pulse to soar, her body shaking so much she could feel vomit rise in her throat. She leant forwards on her knees, the blanket falling from her shoulders and her lips thinned, tongue darting out to wet them. The young doctor froze on the spot when he saw Crimson’s skin vibrating slightly as if his eyesight was failing him incredibly quickly.

“ _Follow your orders doctor_ ,” Schmidt sneered, “ _She can’t hurt you, the serum broke her down; she’s vulnerable_ ,”

Crimson launched herself at the doctor, tripping again from lethargy and disappearing before she hit the floor like last time. She reappeared in front of the doctor, her teeth bared and her eyes surveying him for half a second, deciding that he was quite a handsome man before wrapping one hand around his shoulder and the other over his open mouth.

His neck snapped _deliciously_.

Crimson picked up the clothes and shuffled back to the mattress. She changed into the scrubs and wrapped the blanket around her shoulders once more before curling into a foetal position in an attempt to warm herself.

 

Crimson stood in the middle of the room on the seventh day, facing the blackened window and focussing very hard on what she had done accidentally for the past few days. It was only Doctor Zola behind the glass today and she knew that, following his overly sweet orders to transport herself on purpose. He said that she needed to focus on her next location before she transported, so that she would have a successful journey. Crimson’s mouth quirked at his words and she stared at the small circle of tape set on the floor two feet to her left, willing her body to move but having no such luck. Zola urged her to try again, promising a better meal as a reward and Crimson sighed at the small amount of motivation she had. Yes the meals had deteriorated massively from roast chicken and handmade pies to cold steak and grey pulses made from lentils and vegetables. The promise of a meal that actually tasted of food seemed to do the trick for her because not two minutes later, Crimson let out a wail and her body disappeared, reshaping right in the middle of the circle. Of course, she had seen all the images and colours, felt the spinning and swirling but in the middle of all of that, her mind focussed on the image of the circle she had just seen. And in her head, it was like a pathway was opened for her to successfully venture down. This, in all, had taken less than two seconds and Zola delightfully wrote down the results, leaving without a word.

Crimson never got that promised meal.

 

 

She spent three weeks locked up in that room because Zola believed that she had not finished mutating yet and Crimson was not complaining. There were no immunisations, no emotion wiping, no memory wiping, no training, nothing; it was pure bliss, even if she felt sick the whole time. Schmidt had ordered her do press-ups and sit ups every night as to not fall behind on her physical training but she even felt calm doing the exercises, warm sweat coating her instead of chilling her to the core. It wasn’t until the last day of the third week that something of significance actually occurred. Crimson was training, pulling her torso up to tap her knees with each calmed breath, controlling her muscles and lungs as she was taught. She managed sixty before she leaned to the side and vomited.

“Are you well soldier?” it was another English female nurse and Crimson could see her silhouette behind the glass, “Do you want my assistance?”

Crimson could only grunt in reply, clutching her abdomen tightly and wincing as if she were being attacked. There was a pain in her gut that she was not familiar to, one that twisted her insides and pulled at her very core. It felt wrong and she howled, pushing herself from the ground and hunching over herself in an attempt to squeeze the pain right from her skin.

“Please, you are not alright,” the female nurse banged into the room and placed a gentle arm over her shoulders, “Let me help, what is wrong? What are you feeling?”

Crimson shook her head and squeezed back tears of pain. A lump rose in her throat and she lurched forwards, suddenly feeling very lightheaded. She couldn’t breathe for a second, her lungs seizing and her heart clenching in discomfort. Her ears detected a scream of pain and rubble falling to the ground all around her.

The doctor was no longer consoling her, a body now lying in what used to be the spectator’s room. The divide and the glass had been destroyed in some kind of explosion. The doctor’s face was charred and blistered from the assault, her limbs black or fractured from her body completely and everything around her was destroyed.

From the surveillance room, Schmidt had been monitoring her. He visibly shook at what he had just witnessed. When the female doctor had touched his soldier, she had been instantly thrown back by a huge explosive wave of electric blue energy. It erupted from Crimson’s skin, destroying everything in its path, including the cameras, the walls, the glass, the room and the two guards beyond the metal doors.

He smiled. This was the soldier he had always wanted.


	8. Chapter 8

_December 1943_

Crimson was told that the blue energy she produced could be stronger than the V2 rocket that the Nazis had invented; she was told that they could decimate a whole city in less than five seconds. They trained her to vary the strength of the energy, from utter destruction to a small burn on the right hand of her opponent. They found out that nothing could penetrate the force, once it had been concentrated and that nothing could blast past it or through it.

They trained Crimson until she collapsed in exhaustion from the pure mind power it took to transport and to produce the blasts and shields. Guards dragged her back to her new quarters, dumping her on the mattress and locking the thick steel door so that she could not escape. Their attitude towards her had deteriorated ever since her ‘mutation’ and they were treating her more like a highly unstable prisoner than a valuable soldier. They weren’t gentle, joking or friendly anymore, instead using their weapons to escort her places and calling her filthy, humiliating names.

She was being treated awfully. The coaches manipulated her mind and her physical responses to things so only single words triggered her ‘red hue’; the doctors didn’t clean utensils before performing, they never gave her the rubber to bite down on and they laughed at her when she threw up or lost control of her bladder during the immunisations; and the general staff, although still terrified of Schmidt, were less cautious around her now and they were especially horrid to her, changing the meals to grey fluids and alcohol spiked drinks.

Her immunisations had increased, her military training being put on standby to make way for all the pain the staff could think of, inflicting on to her poor body. The machine they used became smaller and more efficient as they updated the technology, the needles and straps shortening down to square patches that stuck to her temples. Crimson still lay on the table when they inflicted pain, writhing as little as she could as to please her superiors. But they just turned up the machine one more notch.

It was a Sunday and Schmidt had ordered another immunisation, interrupting her PT session with the latest and skinniest coach. She was hoisted to the familiar room, strapped to the same table and told the same instructions she had been hearing for the past five and a half years.

They turned the machine on without warning and Crimson’s chest heaved as they pumped fire through her blood, the patches somehow managing to stay stuck to her sweating temples,

“ _No_ ,” Schmidt hissed, “ _I want the electric current up to full power_ ,”

It was a punishment for not performing to his standards during a particular run where she had to sprint continuously with twenty pound weights strapped to her ankles. Instead of torture or starvation, Crimson was immunised. It was what she had anticipated when she returned from the exercise,

“AGH!” she let out a sudden and pitiful howl, startling everyone in the room. Her heart was thudding uncontrollably, her blood racing around her body like lightning, her knuckles white like marble. Crimson’s whole body writhed, her mouth was open with silent screams and her chest burned. Her ears exploded as wails bubbled up from her stomach, threatening to let go.

“ _Sir, her pulse is far too elevated!_ ” one doctor shouted desperately, her tiny whimpers turning into terrified groans,

“ _Her heart and her blood pressure sir_ ,” another pointed to a small screen where her vitals were being monitored. Schmidt merely shook his head and waltzed up to Edith, who now had tears running down her cheeks,

“ _It’s been ten minutes soldier_ ,” he hissed, backhanding her, “ _What are you doing?_ ”

She could do nothing but let out an ear piercing scream and her body scrunched up, the straps straining against her skin. There was a sudden shout from across the room,

“ _SHE’S GOING INTO CARDIAC ARREST!_ ” Schmidt was yanked backwards as several surgeons thundered forward,

“ _STOP IT!_ ” Crimson screeched, knocking away the vial of morphine out of the hand of a surgeon,

“ _Turn off the machine Doctor Zola_ ,” another doctor, female, mumbled and the Swiss man jumped, his head snapping away from where his creation was quickly fading away. His hands fumbled on the machine’s control board, flicking a switch and turning a knob to zero, the background noise lowering to nothing and all that could be heard where Crimson’s pained grunts as a scalpel was brought down into her chest, the skin splitting open like butter.

She looked away, her body still convulsing with agonising pain,

“ _She needs to stay still_ ,” she heard someone say loudly and hands found her arms, pinning them to her sides, preventing her from flailing about as they punched a thick needle into her chest, a grey liquid seeping its way into her body, slowly numbing her like a normal human should feel.

“ _Put this in her_ ,” Schmidt stood next to the surgeon replacing an artery from when it had burst under pressure. The surgeon held it up to the light, inspecting it; a chip, no larger than a child’s finger nail glinted at him, “ _It’s a tracker, and a micro-chip so we may find her if she…escapes_ ,”

The surgeon turned to the leader with a disgusted look on his face,

“She’s not a dog,” he hissed in English, “A soldier under command, but not a pet you can tame,”

A gunshot echoed off the walls. Crimson was fighting to keep her eyes open as the surgeon slumped to the floor, a bullet lodged into his forehead. He was removed quickly by two faceless guards, another taking his place, plucking the chip from the floor and cleaning it, before inserting it gently into the replaced artery.

It bleeped once, unravelling just a little and three tiny spikes appeared, sinking into the muscle of the left aorta and fixing itself in place,

“I will tame her,” Schmidt seethed, Crimson’s body finally falling limp against the doctors who held her down, “She will be my answer to chaos,”

 

Crimson awoke three hours later, curled up on a dingy mattress in a cell with a soldier stood to attention outside, holding a glowing gun. Stretching, she felt a minute pang in her chest and her breath halted as she looked down. A few inches above her left breast was a long, clean incision that throbbed as she felt around it. Her blood caked nails caught on the metal staples sealed the wound.

They had tried to kill her, unintentionally of course but all the same; she went into cardiac arrest and was operated on, while still awake. 

They had tried to kill her. A staple came off into her palm, sticky with dried blood and morphine. She was injected three times the amount a normal human would have before she felt even a little groggy.

They had tried to kill her.

Schmidt had tried to kill her. She was his weapon, his chaos; why did he harm her?

The sound of keys clanging shook her awake and the door to her cell opened, the guard shimmying his way next to her. His gun, belt and coat were left just outside the door and he looked down at her with an unfamiliar emotion filling his eyes,

“ _You are brave soldier_ ,” he said gently, “ _Taking all that pain, all that humiliation and bullshit_ ,” none of the guards talked to her like that, not one of them had initiated a conversation that wasn’t about her training, her methods or her body…It was strange and slightly discomforting to be able to talk to the young man. He couldn’t be much older than she was,

“ _It is okay_ ,” she answered hastily, turning away from him, “ _I am used to it_ ,” and at her answer, the guard knelt down and pulled her hands away from her chest,

“ _I heard you didn’t get morphine_ ,” he muttered, his eyes transfixed on the staples she was pulling out of her skin as easily as plucking feathers from a chicken,

“ _More than what was necessary_ ,” the guard’s hands had slipped beneath her shirt and he very delicately began caressing her bare skin, “ _what are you doing?!_ ” she cried out in alarm,

“ _I have been brave too_ ,” he commented, forcefully scooping the shirt over her head so she was completely exposed to him, “ _I deserve a little recognition from all the times I have been thrown around and fucked up by you,_ ” he stood up and pulled Crimson with him, yanking her trousers down to her ankles,

“ _No_ ,” she tried to scramble away but she was still frightfully weak from the operation, “ _You are forbidden to touch me, the superior banned this and -_ ,” a piece of cloth was stuffed into her mouth,

“ _Silence_ ,” his order was final, “ ** _I_** _am your superior_ ,” she was pressed flush against the wall of her cell, her scarred chest rubbing uncomfortably against the cool bricks, “ _I will have my pay – think of this as revenge,_ ”

He was not selfish like the other man all those months ago, taking her slowly and deliberately, as if punishing her for all the times she had hurt him.

Crimson could not picture his face in all the years she had been there, not once had she come across him.

One leg was curled back to rest on his hip and his chest pressed against her back, hands slithering their way across her breasts and down to feel himself entering her continuously,

“ _You are delicious_ ,” he muttered, sucking on her neck and his leathery fingers began to rub her teasingly, “ _I wish to have you all_ ,” Crimson couldn’t help but cry out, spittle gathering in the corners of her lips and soaking the cloth, “ _That’s it my soldier, feel me_ ,” he sped up slightly, thighs banging together and skin clapping loudly. He gasped when Crimson’s fingers reached down to touch him, clenching his base and she began to rut back against him. She spat the cloth from her mouth and moaned wantonly,

“ _Turn around_ ,” her voice was blank and held no emotion. He pulled away and dragged her into his arms, hoisting her legs around his waist,

“ _I’m glad you are enjoying me_ ,” the guard grinned jauntily, bringing himself back into her and locking his arms under her knees. Crimson hissed and gasped, baring her teeth and demanding that he went faster, strumming her fingers against where she was stretched around him. The guard buried his head between her breasts, suckling on the skin and biting her nipples, his hips slamming up against hers.

“ _Yes, yes_ ,” Crimson babbled, tossing her head back and arching her back, biting at his shoulders and almost clawing her clitoris, her stomach clenching with every thrust. The guard was sweating beneath her, still kissing her breasts and speeding up once Crimson tensed up with a lewd yelp, spasms ripping through her very core. He continued his wild rutting, gnashing and gnawing at her skin until he himself shouted out, almost collapsing against the wall in lethargy.

Crimson pushed away and stalked forwards on shaky legs, still panting from her end and she fished around his utility belt, hands and wrists small enough to fit through the bars of her cell. Although he had serviced her and brought her to orgasm, he had still touched her without Schmidt’ permission and that was punishable by death. The knife felt wet against her fingers and Crimson stretched out a little more, feeling the guard kneel behind her.

“Again?” Crimson so dearly wanted to, pressing back against him with a strangled grunt. He was nice to her, not selfish and listened to her demands, but he had disobeyed an order. The guard entered her again, this time humping her furiously and wildly, fingers spreading her lips and knocking against her clitoris.

Crimson orgasmed twice before he spilled within her, her throat hoarse from her screams and cries. She was sweating and dripping from between her thighs when he finally sat off to the side, his chest heaving just as much as hers.

But Crimson never forgot his disobedience and the knife, having been discarded when she brought her hands back to his hips to force him further and harder into her, was back in a closed fist,

“That was worth it,” the guard wiped his face and admired her naked form as she crawled towards him, blade hidden carefully in her palm. Crimson knelt between his legs and kissed between his pectorals, bringing her fist up to the spot.

He was dead before he could scream out, his own blade embedded in his throat.

Numb.

There was a slow clapping echoing from the shadows to her right and she pulled her hands away from the bars, retreating to her mattress like the obedient pet she was,

“ _He was young and foolish, he deserved it_ ,” her leader assured her, coming into the light of the bulb flickering in her cell,

“ _I don’t care who he was_ ,”

“ _That’s right soldier_ ,” the leader grinned, taking something from his pocket, “ _You are being moved tonight_ ,”

“ _Why_?” her question was simple but venomous,

“ _They have located the facility_ ,” he replied, “ _They are outside, breaching our security_ ,”

Crimson began to redress herself un-embarrassedly, smoothing her hair away from her face.

“ _Zola created something that can prevent them from tracking you_ ,” Schmidt produced a small syringe with a clear liquid inside it, “ _You leave a heat signature every time you teleport, they can track you on radar. This will enable you to adapt to the temperature of each location you teleport to and from_ ,” Crimson snatched the syringe from him and she squeezed her forearm so the already purple veins became engorged. He watched her insert the syringe, a grey hue appearing on her skin as the solution travelled around her body. It was like the immunisations, when they lowered her body temperature, gave her shocks of sub-zero temperatures to her heart only this was rather pleasant. She could feel her lips cracking, the skin around her eyes tightening and drying,

“ _You look magnificent_ ,” he praised her, unlocking the cell and leading her out, her nails turning a sickly blue. They passed a dirty mirror on the way out and she felt herself being held by two guards, a needle again piercing the skin of her neck.

She looked dead as her eyes closed from the sedative, her body slumping against the guard to her right.

She looked dead.

Dead.

 

 

Crimson, while kept unconscious, was transferred. Her body was bound with glowing blue chains, a cuff was over her mouth to keep her silent, but they kept pumping her with substances to keep her sedated.

What they didn’t realise was that three hours into the journey, she had become immune and was merely relishing in sleep not interrupted by screams.

Austria to Germany; a journey that took nearly eleven hours on roads made of dirt, rolling up mountains or under them, via train or truck and shooting people that got in the way. The new base was just across the border, deep within the forests and hidden by the mountains.

She was awake when they drove into the facility, staring blankly at the two masked guards in front of her, chatting away in German, not knowing that she understood every single word they said.

_Training._

_Dead._

_Schmidt._

_Filthy Americans._

They were criticising her; oblivious to the looks of murder they were receiving from the prisoner they were supposed to be guarding.

She was not a prisoner.

“ _She’s crying_ ,” one guard muttered discreetly and Crimson felt tears drip on to her aching hands. She didn’t know why she was crying, it was unfamiliar and that just made her weep harder.

She was supposed to feel nothing, not aches, not scratches, no cold, no heat; nothing.

She was blank, a weapon; she was their chaos.

 

 

There was a new machine, similar to the one she was given the serum in and it looked terrifying, if such an emotion as fear existed within Crimson’s mind.

“ _This is the future Soldier_ ,” Schmidt had visited her three weeks after her arrival, pacing around her a few times before pressing a gun to her shoulder and watching her not bat an eyelid when he shot her through and through, the bullet clanging to the floor behind her. He had told her that the machine was to keep her in line, under his command at all times, to keep her on a leash so he could pull her back if she should disobey him. It was a machine to cleanse her mind, to erase those distant foggy images that plagued her mind at night. It was so new, so clean, and so fresh to her and if Crimson found it odd, she didn’t dare mention it.

There were steel bars making up one wall, the corridor beyond lined with masked guards stretching far into the shadows so they could hear her screams and watch her torture. The machine consisted of a metal chair, slightly reclined with a long arm that connected with a circular contraption to fit round one’s head, with several silver clamps to restrain her limbs. Beside were the usual three screens that monitored her vitals, with the familiar control pad that could be set to agonising torture or to dull aches.

“ _My soldier?_ ” she heard Zola ask her quietly, “ _Will you obey?_ ” it wasn’t a question of whether she would or she wouldn’t, he would still force her anyway. Crimson looked down at him with dark eyes, her pupils blown and nodded stiffly, easing herself into the chair. The metal was cold against her bare skin and she laid back, the silver braces clamping immediately across her biceps and shins like claws.

“ _Punishment_ ,” she muttered to herself settling back and Zola brought the contraption down to her forehead, pressing a fragment of metal to her eye and the side of her face, not quiet touching her skin. Two doctors in white coats took seats beside her, fiddling with the screens and flicking switches to power up some hidden source. It buzzed and whirred inside a wall or beneath the floor, the sound echoed off the walls and inside of her head. Zola pulled himself into a chair and recalibrated a setting so the buzzing became louder until the ringing in her ears became a new kind of pain,

“ _It will begin my soldier_ ,” and he inserted a key, twisted it forcefully and slammed a button.

Crimson unconsciously cried out, her mind splitting into white hot flashes that blinded her and red splotches flitted through her mind’s eye like a scratched film. So many images were pulled forwards, women crying, men screaming, voices shouting above one another; it was a pain she had never experienced before. Her skull felt as if it had split in two, her temples throbbing and her heart beating so wildly that it felt as through her blood was boiling beneath her skin. Zola and the two doctors were oblivious to her pain, carefully reading the lines zigzagging across the screens and writing down her writhing reactions. Crimson whined and whimpered, struggling against her restrains and squeezing her eyes closed as to no longer see the memories flashing past her vision. But they only materialised beneath her eyelids at an even faster rate, becoming blurs of grey, white and red. She thrashed, her body becoming hot and then cold, shivering and vibrating, throbbing and moaning.

The restraints cracked once, the noise echoing down the corridor before they snapped all together into several tiny pieces. Crimson wrenched the head piece from her skin, swiping her fist upwards and sending out a wave of energy, directing it at the doctors and the control panel. The men were thrown backwards and the controls exploded into hundreds of yellow sparks.

The room turned green, an alarm began to wail and the door to the room clanged open, several guards open firing at her ghostly pale figure. A force field was up and tearing them to shreds before the first bullets even got ten centimetres from their guns. Crimson surged forwards, picking up a weapon and shooting anything that moved. She was blinded by fear, by hope and by rage; her vision clouded by the red hue that she had become so familiar to.


	9. Chapter 9

 

Numb. She was running. People were chasing her, bullets hitting the force field that was folded against her body, hitting the floor beneath her bare feet, ricocheting off the walls beside her head. Crimson used to be the predator, hunting the prey on retrieval missions and infiltration exercises but now she was being hunted by the people who created her, cornered by her masters and given unknown orders from her superior. She could hear Schmidt’s voice from somewhere behind her, echoing through her mind, ringing in her ears, screaming for her to stop. But she couldn’t, the noises and colours were too much, images still flashing through her mind and causing her to reach out to an invisible mother.

Crimson could smell the snow, teleporting on top of a guard and shooting him through the forehead; she could hear the wind breathing loudly over the alarms as she vaulted over two others, snapping ones neck and kicking the other in the throat.

The blue electricity that had been sizzling over her skin suddenly peaked, flying outwards in all directions with a thunderous rumble, like a huge wave smashing through walls and windows, doors and people. No one was following her now, the doors resting crumpled against their hinges and the concrete steps disintegrated beneath her feet.

Crimson could see the forest, beyond the fences and wires, beckoning her with their twiggy fingers and whispering her name in the winter wind. She couldn’t teleport again; they would find her with the tracker in her heart. She continued running, using her powerful lungs and muscles to propel herself over dividers and round outposts containing weapons, science divisions or guards. All around her the darkness was illuminated by floodlights and the sparks from shells hitting the ground. The guards were retreating to their huge machines, ploughing through the snow and those who were on foot were hysterically shouting at each other to ‘find the soldier’, ‘find it now’.

She wasn’t theirs to find. Another blast wrenched several tanks backwards; two of them exploding upon impact with others and the sound of burning men filled her ears, making her lips twitch. The fence was electric and had barbed wire across the top, and beyond that was a seventeen foot high double steeled reinforced stone wall.

A shell hit the wire fence, blowing a hole through it near the bottom and Crimson let out a grunt as she slid through it, grazing her thigh and elbow but only using the pain to surge herself forwards. No bullet, shell or bomb could penetrate this wall and Crimson threw her weight forwards against it, the energy covering her body completely demolishing the stone and steel. Rubble crumbled around her, dust flying in all directions. It gave her a head start, tears streaking down her face due to the wind as she sped northwards, weaving through black trees and dodging another outpost that paid no attention to the black shadow flitting through the woods.

It wasn’t until she was twenty six miles out that she paused to catch her breath, after checking the immediate vicinity of her surroundings and carefully listening out for any perpetrators. But Crimson couldn’t stop for long, no, they would surely find her; she had to get far away from the Facility, even if she didn’t know why or how. That red hue had disappeared, leaving her eyes open to the shimmering snow that covered the floor. The memories slowly flickered out into nothing as she journeyed down a narrow track, passing a sign that had hand painted letters spelling out _Luxembourg_.

 

  
****

 

 

Crimson had no coat, no shirt; just her Physical Training shorts and vest, along with her boots. She had been taught to withstand freezing temperatures but all the same, her teeth were chattering and her exposed skin was being bitten by the harsh winds. She had a knife and her force fields, her strength and her wits as weapons; catching herself food and managing to melt snow with her heightened body temperature. Crimson had passed through Luxembourg in just over a day, walking quickly and with her head down, ignoring the odd glances she received because of her outfit. One charming man had asked her if she was a prostitute, because of her attire and she had squeezed his neck until he stopped breathing, taking his money in revenge. She had ran the rest of the way to Belgium, according to the signs she was following and all she knew was that she had to get to the sea because logically, it would take her further away from the Facility and from Schmidt.

Crimson rubbed her right elbow and shivered at the memory that was still so fresh in her mind, comforting herself in the only way she knew how. She was walking along a main road, though it was muddy and obviously not leading to a major city as it would have been concreted or cobbled. It led to a small town, lit by gas lamps and candles sat in the windows of quaint houses. It was close to midnight and she felt a little safer under the cover of darkness, where no one could see her as suspicious or odd but as she turned a sharp corner up a narrow street, her breath hitched violently. A couple of women were walking towards her and quietly chatting amongst themselves, wrapped snugly in coats made of wool. Both parties paused and stared, all of the French women’s faces softening in pity at Crimson’s state. One stepped forwards, holding her hands out to show that she wasn’t holding anything,

“ _Are you okay madam?_ ” Crimson was asked gently, “ _You look lost_ ,”

Crimson could only stare and her throat constricted, preventing her from answering such a vulnerable, innocent little woman. She had not seen any other female like this in over five years, excluding the doctors, her coaches and the women who sometimes serviced the guards. And this woman had spoken so kindly to her, as if she were just another civilian, as if they were friends.

But she wasn’t and they weren’t friends. Crimson could break the woman in half if she so wished to, choosing to straighten her shoulders like she was taught to and she bowed her head a little,

“ _I am used to the cold_ ,” Crimson assured her croakily and the woman waltzed over, beckoning her friends with her. She was quite beautiful, with chestnut hair pinned into a bun at the base of her neck, cheeks rosy from the cold with small yet friendly green eyes,

“ _I am Marie_ ,” the woman took off her scarf and wrapped it around Crimson’s shoulders, eyeing the guns on her sides distastefully, “ _You’re from the army?_ ”

“ _In a way_ ,” came the disgruntled reply and Crimson blew some hair out of her face,

“ _Where are you stationed?_ ” Marie asked her and a second woman stepped forwards daintily. She was taller than the others but she was painfully bony and hollow, like a starved child although her eyes sparkled with worry, glancing through the darkness towards the edge of the town. Marie ignored the woman and continued, _“There’s a compound just over the border, a training camp for soldiers and they sometimes come down here to take their pick_ ,” Marie gestured to the women behind her who were all standing on shaky, bony legs with wobbling lips and watery eyes,

“ _I heard that it was a munitions factory_ ,” the dainty woman’s voice was as graceful as she looked, almost too sweet for Crimson’s liking and the soldier refrained from clearing her throat to remind the bickering women that she was still present. Schmidt had taught her not to interrupt and only to talk when she was told to.

She was obedient and always would be.

“ _Anyway, why were you there?_ ” the second woman’s sharp tone caused Crimson to bolt up, her spine locking and her mouth twitching with the truth,

“ _I – erm – part of patrols_ ,” Crimson knew she was in Belgium and that the town was little, she did not know where all the main cities were.

“ _They must want you in Brussels, a lot of soldiers come through here on their way to the city_ ,” Marie grasped Crimson’s bicep and tugged her over to a small house, holding a finger up as if to get her to ‘stay’ before disappearing through the door. Crimson clasped her hands behind her back and widened her stance as if she was going to be waiting on the threshold for a while.

Marie’s friends also moved into the house, whispering quietly to one another and not making eye contact as they passed. Crimson knew she looked intimidating, the window of the house reflected that; her mud stained vest, her scarred skin and her bulging muscles. But her face looked different from the last time she had peered into something that showed her reflection; she looked _alive_. Of course, her skin was still pale and dry, her lips cracked and the scar through her eyebrow dark but her eyes were different, stranger somehow - a spark had returned upon her freedom. They were no longer grey and sunken, now alive and icy, crinkling as Edith tried to smile at herself,

“ _Here, it is my brother’s but he is_ away,” Marie had returned with a thick, heavy grey coat with black lapels and brass buttons, and a pair of woollen gloves, “ _You keep the scarf, I have many of the same_ ,”

Crimson refused to look at the coat as she took it from Marie’s arms, scrunching her nose at herself accepting something as luxurious as a piece of clothing from someone other than her superiors. She felt _dirty_ but _defiant_.

“ _Thank you_ ,” the words felt silly coming from her chapped lips as she slipped on the coat, buttoning it up and putting the gloves onto her shivering hands. Crimson turned to leave, upon hearing the door close and she jogged up the main street, past a church and several buildings with flags hanging out of the windows. They were red with a symbol on them that she had not seen before.

Crimson passed the last sign of the town, the big black letters stating its name proudly for all to see. She had just passed through the town of Bastogne.

 

 

It was a week before she came to the sea, having stopped three times to rest and eat, and then taken a car for the last day and a half. Crimson had adopted four names over her journey away from the facility, French names to avoid suspicion and all very different so they could not find her.

Joan, Marie, Lucille and Magdalene; all from people she had met.

She found herself enjoying the interaction with people, normal people who still looked at her with scared glances but offered her food and places to stay anyhow, asking her sweet questions and wondering why she was so ignorant to the reality of life.

But she was still running. Crimson still left those kind people in the dead of night, sneaking away so they would be safe. She left before emotional attachments could be locked, never remembering any of their names, forgetting the towns she stayed in and the food she ate. She was still hiding from HYDRA, still running, still invisible, still numb.

Crimson dared not teleport; she was sure it would set off the tracker in her chest, in her heart and then they would find her, or the tracker would kill her. And what if they found her? Would they take her back to be numbed again, trained again, drilled-

“ _Excuse me_ ,” the voice spoke very good French, but there was an underlying American accent; one she hadn’t heard in so long, “ _I’m sorry but you look very lost_ ,”

Crimson wondered why so many people were asking her that and she turned, her train of thought suddenly lost at the sight of the young man stood before her. He eyed her coat, muddy and wet from the snow but he smiled reassuringly anyhow. Crimson looked down at her feet, drawing the coat further around her body, mostly to conceal the weapons that she had upon her. She only shot one person so she could have his car.

There was no guilt for her actions.

“ _Who are you_?” she asked simply, avoiding his eyes and she dropped down from the sea wall she had been standing on,

“Michael Fitz,” he replied immediately, “ _I live in the house across the street_ ,”

“From _America_ though, yes?” Crimson let the language roll on her tongue, testing out the English for the first time in four years. Michael turned purple and spluttered a little “I not the enemy, spies are no interest to me,” she told him and he blinked steadily at her admission, stepping backwards into the street,

“What are you doing in a German uniform?” Michael said, leaning up against a street light, the glow enabling Crimson to watch his face carefully. He had an air of authority about him; his chin held high and his posture perfectly straight yet she couldn’t help but notice his small, friendly smile and the way his hands were fumbling with a cigarette,

“I was given it,” she replied slowly, inching her way closer to the man but shrinking away from the smoke that billowed from his mouth,

“From whom?” he asked, holding the roll towards her and she plucked it from his fingers,

“A woman,” Crimson muttered, “She was kind to me,” she picked at the soldered end of the cigarette and handed it back to him,

“Where’re you from?” Michael asked and Crimson struggled to understand his grammar, his ‘slang’ as Schmidt called it, “You gonna answer me?” she flinched slightly at his tone and stood up straighter,

“Germany sir,” her voice was stiff and Michael immediately noticed a change,

“Before that,” his question through her off-guard, causing her to stumble backwards with the vision of white cliffs and a small village, salt washed houses and orange flags.

Numb.

Silence.

“Do you want me to take you with me?” he stomped out his cigarette and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, “I am leaving for the states in an hour, you can come with me if you want,”

“Will I be free?” she asked, almost inaudibly. Free; the word sounded foreign, coming out cracked and broken,

“Sure,” Michael replied, gesturing for her to walk with him, “We’ll help you, but you’ve just got to give us the details,”

She couldn’t, not yet; it was too fresh. The memories were still recent, still at the front of her mind, flashing every time she closed her eyes,

“Not here,” why did she say that, “Please,” Why was she saying these things, giving him the false hope of the important details.

“Well, come with me and you can tell the important people, and you’ll be safe,” Michael reassured her and began to walk away, smiling to himself when Crimson trotted up next to him, his eyes spotting the weapons situated on her body, “Got enough defence there?” he teased, pointing to the knife and Crimson flushed, the corners of her lips turning up but she said nothing,

“You’re making me restless,” Michael told her, “What is a pretty girl doing in Belgium; a spy like me perhaps?”

“I am a soldier,” she uttered, following him up a wide and suspiciously quiet street before stopping outside a grey stone building, “The Crimson Soldier, project number eighteen,” she recited robotically, not noticing Michael tensing immediately at her words and slipping his hand to his hip, clutching the hilt of a pistol. They continued walking in silence, Crimson subconsciously lifting her fingers to scratch at her scalp.

Michael watched her play with her hair, reaching just below her jaw and he noticed that it had been a different colour prior. Her hair was a dry ash blonde, if one could call it that, so light it seemed white but just the very tips of her lengths were a deep, heavy brown, reminding him of shoe polish,

“What was that project again?” Michael asked her, leading her up a few steps to a large concrete building that looked very old and very regent with stone pillars and a heavy oak door upon which Michael rapped smartly three times. Crimson stayed silent.

“Did you work on it?” he persisted, rolling his eyes at her ignorance and turned towards the door, this time thumping his fist harshly on the wood, “Why is no one answering the goddamn door?”

“ _Because you should have a goddamn key Mr Fitz_ ,” the door was opened with a hiss and a very tall, very broad man stood with fuming eyes, “ _What the hell are you doing out at this time? Why are you speaking English! Your plane leaves in forty five minutes_!” His French was far more convincing than Michael Fitz’s and Crimson was surprised to find no error in his alias.

“I have another passenger,” Michael stepped back, allowing Crimson to nervously try to crack a smile but all she found was seething anger and a gun pointed at her chest,

“Mr Fitz,” the man growled, his voice grumbling through Crimson’s belly and she then realised that Michael held another gun to the side of her head, “Bring her inside God damnit,”

Crimson was helpless, her body following their orders and allowing the two men to shunt her down several flights of stairs and into a heavily reinforced room containing a table and two chairs. Michael still had a gun pointing at her while the second man retrieved several files from another room, slapping them on to the table before her,

“I give you permission to speak freely and you will answer every question I ask you,” the second man spat, “I’m Josef Margot, Allied Special Operations,” he narrowed his eyes at her and Crimson wet her lips, preparing to answer every question truthfully as she was taught to,

“Are you The Crimson Soldier, part of the major Nazi science division code named HYDRA?” he got straight into it, starting with the simpler questions and statements. Crimson nodded silently, “Answer every question with words,” he demanded,

“Yes sir,” she still sounded stoic and her reply seemed to surprise both men, even if they tried to hide it,

“And are you the creation of a Doctor Anrim Zola?”

“Yes sir,”

“Trained under Captain Johan Schmidt?”

“Yes sir,”

“Do you know your name?” this time it was Crimson’s turn to be shocked. The question was so personal that it knocked tears from her eyes, wetting her cheeks for the first time in months,

“I think it Edith,” she mumbled, “But I not recall well sir,” Josef jotted down a few notes and flicked through the file, pulling out a photo that caused Crimson to shudder violently,

“Is this why you do not remember things?” it was a picture of the machine she had been forced into not seven days ago, “Is this their way of controlling you?” his words were not kind or soothing, and they did nothing to stop Crimson from whimpering quietly, shuffling away from the picture,

“I destroyed it,” she uttered, “Seven days ago, it did not work for me,” all orders of secrecy and lies were gone now as she scrubbed at her eyes, “They had one before, smaller and dull – it forgot me how to shoot,” it was like she was relearning English, her words getting jumbled and her grammar was terrible, “That one,” she pointed to the photo, “Was bigger and terrible and I have no memories – it took memories from me,” she saw sympathy and disbelief, “You know it?”

“We have a spy in HYDRA and they relayed information about plans, developments, and inventions, and about you,” Josef’s eyes narrowed, “The last information we received was about this machine and it was used on you eight days ago,”

“Yes, I destroy it and ran the Facility,” she repeated, “I ran Belgium and Luxembourg, they train me in Austria -,” Crimson stopped herself before she said too much and Josef glanced at Michael before closing the file and bringing his notebook to his full attention,

“Where are you from?” he asked, suspiciously gently and Crimson shook her head,

“I do not know sir,” she replied quietly,

“What was your first mission?” another question she didn’t know and she told them so, “The reason you were brought in then, what was that?”

Crimson opened her coat, fiddling with the shiny metal tags around her neck. There were four in all, her name, date of birth, and blood type stamped on in capitals; one in Russian, German, French and Polish.

“It says that I am AO Negative,” she held up the German one to show him, “And this one, it says EDM,” she squinted at the one in Russian,

“Eidetic memory,” Michael breathed and Edith nodded, “Jesus Christ, how did they wipe you with that shit?”

“I do not know sir,” at her words, Josef slammed his hands down on the table and stood up,

“Is there anything you do know?” he seethed, his face dangerously close to hers and Edith squeezed her eyes closed before opening them again because she heard Schmidt in her head telling her to look directly at her opponent,

“I know how to kill,” she told them dangerously, “I was trained to kill,” she looked Josef in the eye, “I am weapon,”

“We know, you’ve assassinated three CIA agents, one US foreign ambassador and you murdered another ten civilians in the last three years - as well as god knows how many others we don’t know about,” Michael was stood in the corner, a vein protruding in his forehead and his neck turning pink with stress,

“I could not have witnesses,” Crimson remembered the day, one of her only memories and it haunted her every time she saw a dark skinned woman. That was the first civilian that she killed at the time, an African American woman who pleaded with Crimson before choking on her own blood. The other nine were white men and women, all running from her screaming until they fell to the floor with holes in their heads. It had been in Austria, in a small park where children had been playing and couples had been peacefully strolling. 

“Witnesses my ass,” Michael hissed, “You killed them because that is all you know,”

“They were orders,” Crimson replied hastily, “I complete mission, I return and I get immunised,”

Curiosity now spread across the men’s faces,

“Immunisation? Joel didn’t say anything about that,” Josef glanced up at Michael and they both shrugged, “Care to elaborate Edith,” she flinched at the use of the name,

“They took away pain,” Crimson was shaking, “I have immunity, I am numb, I feel nothing. They put pain into me and I felt nothing and gave my body disease until I felt good,” she took off her coat, revealing the insides of her elbows, the bruises becoming darker and more obvious in the light. The two men fought back retches as they inspected the dark holes where the needles had been, the skin around it blistered and heavily stressed, the veins popping even when she relaxed her arms, “They trained me to be soldier, made me run and fight men and taught me to shoot and break necks,” Josef was writing down everything she said, jotting so fast that he ripped the page at one point, “They taught me Russian, German, Polish and French - I could act like native when I was mission,”

“And then after they trained you up, you got given a serum that reacted with your cells and mutated your DNA,” Michael finished for her, to the dismay of Josef who then reopened the file, flicking to the back and underlining several words,

“You are the first ever artificial mutant,” Josef clasped his hands over the paper, “You are a super soldier created to win the war for the Nazis,”

“Not for the Fuhrer,” Crimson saw both men roll their eyes her the word, “For HYDRA, I was their chaos weapon – but now I am free,” Michael nodded, almost warmly with a small smile,

“You come to America and you’ll be free forever,”

Josef Margot had given her a pass to travel to America with Michael, granted that she was to be taken straight to the government upon arrival, and he even phoned up in advance. He had also given her different uniform; a blouse and a straight brown skirt, a pair of rather delicate looking shoes and a thick chestnut coat.

It reminded her of Marie’s hair.


	10. Chapter 10

Michael and the airport security had not let her keep the gun, asking her to turn it in because they would cause some mistrust within the US government. But he reluctantly gave in to letting her keep the knife, after several minutes of her eyes darting around for something to use as a weapon instead.

Crimson’s skin still smelt of the facility as they boarded the plane, she reeked of the blood that she had spilt and of the sweat that had built up over the last week. Michael continuously tried to make small talk with her, giving up after the only response he got was shrugged shoulders.

Crimson’s body was turned away from him and she glanced out of the window at the darkness below them, the sea stretching out like a blanket and clouds obscured her view every few moments, soaking the window like it was raining,

“Never been on a plane?” Michael asked her calmly after a moment of intense silence, “Not even on missions or when they moved you?”

“They used trains or trucks,” she grumbled, “And I was not awake,” her voice was groggy, obviously sleep deprived and Michael made a disgruntled face, “Permission to sleep sir,”

“Yeah sure?” he shrugged and then he dropped his head into his hands, a grunt of realisation escaping his mouth, “You had to be given orders to sleep didn’t you?” he pulled out a small notepad and pen, scribbling down a few notes, “What about eating, and drinking? Did they allow you to do that freely?” Crimson shook her head.

Orders are orders. Disobedience meant punishment and punishment meant immunisation or abuse.

“When was the last time you slept?” Michael asked, still noting down her words,

“One day,” she replied and he exhaled impatiently, shaking his head,

“No, I mean proper sleep,” he explained, “A full nine hour nightcap,”

“I think it about eight days before wiping; they gave ten hours to get strength,” Crimson sounded silly, her voice was shaking and breaking every other word and she yawned at the end, covering her mouth as if ashamed at her actions, “Permission to sleep Mr Fitz?”

“Granted I suppose, but I’ll have to wake you up in a couple of hours,” Michael replied quietly, watching her eyes fall closed immediately, her breathing deepening, sleep overtaking her senses instantly, “Goddamn it,” Michael groaned quietly, watching her sleep, her body so still and so silent. He knew soldiers were taught to sleep silently, no snoring and no heavy breathing so the enemy would not hear them but she seemed to have been taught to stay still like she was dead. Her body did not move for the rest of the journey, her limbs curled up tightly into the chair, her head resting on her knees.

Her eye lids began to twitch as the plane began its descent into the states, her body shaking slightly as it touched down, the small bump causing her to groan quietly,

“Erm- miss, we have to go,” Michael gently and he very cautiously shook her arm, gesturing for two armed men to stand near him, in case she _attacked_.

But her icy eyes opened calmly, as if she had not just been dreaming of the white laboratory where her head had first been shaved and she sighed at the two men in black suits,

They eyed her carefully as she awkwardly smoothed out the skirt and scratched her scalp, wincing at the dirt that came out underneath her finger nails,

“There’ll be a shower at Washington, you can clean yourself up after the meeting,” Michael led Crimson out of the plane, flanked by the two men and she scowled at them, “I have no intention of showing you to the president, we’ll have you checked over and assessed before settling the details,”

The wind was rough as they crossed the runway, but it was warmer than in Belgium and the sky was brightening with every step Crimson took. The two men continuously bashed against her, struggling to keep up with both her and Michael’s long strides. His were fast, aiming to get into a car and to the White House as soon as possible but hers were tense with some kind of irrational fear that was clogging her chest. Michael nodded to himself, rolling down the window and hastily lighting a cigarette,

“You are going to get asked more questions soon and I want you to -,” he turned to Crimson and saw her sitting stock straight in between the two suited men, “Sit here,” he momentarily glared at the men as he gestured for Crimson to perch herself next to him, a little more comfortably on the leather seats, “As I was saying, they – the guys at the CIA – will do everything they can to break you and make you angry; they want to see how weaponised you are, to see if the rumours are true,”

“So they already know me,” she muttered, her hand reaching over to his and taking the cigarette, running the paper beneath her nose before breathing in the smoke, “And I will be the interrogated,” Michael raised an eyebrow, “I sometimes was allowed to ask questions to betrayers if they had - but usually -,” she choked quietly on a memory, “I always did the executions,”

“And how were they?” he asked very cautiously and Crimson shook her head, closing her eyes against the blood and brains that splattered the snow at her feet, “Better get the worst over with cause the CIA are nasty bastards who have no boundaries,” Michael tried again and Edith clenched her jaw,

“I got orders based on sentence,” she recited, “It was always outside and with a gun, I cannot remember - there were many of them,” Michael wrote that down and sucked his cigarette,

“Is your training a shitty subject?” he asked her, “As in weaponry and physical training, I assume you got that cause no broad I’ve seen has muscles like you,” Crimson nodded and then shook her head to answer his first question because honestly, her training was the only thing that didn’t plague her, “And what about your mutations?”

“Safe sir,” she replied, “I cannot demonstrate, unstable and unsafe,” she bit her tongue and wet her lips, “I cannot remember the change, it is fragments now,” Michael nodded,

“The memories will come back Edith, I can promise you that,” he saw her shoulders drop in slight submission, “We’ll get you help, even if the CIA fuck you over,” there was a pause, “Joseph wants you to join the army,”

Crimson recoiled sharply and flattened herself against the car door opposite Michael,

“It’s alright,” no one wanted her panicking because no one knew what she was capable of, “It’s a very slim chance Edith, and even if Josef’s scheme was accepted, they won’t enlist you officially until we know for definite that you’re as stable as we can fucking get you,” Michael knew that it would be a very slim shot that the United States Government would want an emotionally and physically wary super soldier in their military. Crimson withdrew from him with a frown.

“I suspect after three weeks, you’ll start developing a routine for yourself,” Michael explained, “I assume they trained you and what the fuck was it – Immunised - you every day which was their plan but now you’ve been away from them for more than a week, things’ll start going out of whack,” Crimson nodded and bowed her head, still sitting very straight and Michael’s own back started to ache just looking at her, “Do you know basic first aid?” he asked, writing down her answer when she shook her head,

“That was immunisation,” Crimson informed him, “They did not want me slow during missions, they did not want me dead,” Michael saw her eyes flick to the faces of the men sat with them, then down to where their concealed weapons were, and then to the car door where Michael could almost see the cogs clicking in her head. She was instinctively mapping out an escape route should she need one,

“So you can heal? Like anything?” Michael quizzed, his pen flying across the paper of his note pad and Crimson grimaced,

“They never put gun to my head,” her answer was quick and somewhat pained, “A couple of months, my heart hurt – I do not know what happened but it was terrible,” she spoke like someone who had no concept of pain, like she had never felt it in her entire life and Michael felt pity because she was so ignorant and so _childlike_.

“Under what conditions, why did they do it?” he was cautious with the way he approached the subject, out of sheer curiosity; his writing slow and deliberate,

Crimson only remembered the fog of the ceiling and the identical faces of the surgeons, six pinning her down and two operating on her. She remembered punching the one that was going to give her morphine, and then watching another receive a bullet through his skull, supplied by Schmidt.

“My heart went too fast and something broke,” she gestured down to where her heart was, “They cut me, I got morphine,” her fists clenched, “I think they put something in me, a little button and my superior -,” Crimson blinked rapidly, “He said it - to keep watch on me,”

“Jesus Christ,” Michael swore, completely ripping out a page, staring afresh with a more vigorous effort, pressing down on the paper so hard that the pen slipped from his fingers at least twice, “So they put this thing in your heart to what? Track you if you escape?”

“My body sets it off,” she explained gruffly, noticing that the car had stopped rather smoothly, “They gave me something - stops people seeing me on screens; I cannot control this,” the car door was opened, another man in a suit standing above her however he did not have glasses on, instead wearing a kind smile,

“Mr Fitz,” the man greeted in a cheery tone, offering Crimson a kind hand out of the car, “General Eisenhower is waiting for you,”

“To be honest, I had no idea who we were supposed to be seeing,” Michael admitted, hurrying next to the smiling man and Crimson again was flanked by the two others, both standing even closer than before as the four walked across a road, towards a huge white building. It was plain, dull and square but it was still something Crimson had never seen before. This structure looked official, people in black, blue and burgundy suits dashing past her in all directions, carrying briefcases or huge piles of paper, or talking hurriedly in hushed voices to one another. Crimson saw glimpses of their faces; young, pretty, round, warty, long nosed, and hollow cheeked, and _feeling_.

A very petit woman brushed past suddenly, her mahogany hair long down her back, messy and un-kept. She was anxious, the wrinkles on her forehead and her pursed lips showed it, perspiration trickling down her brow.

Another man wondered past, both arms securing a thick pile of paper, his round glasses threatening to slip off his nose. He was tired; bags beneath his eyes, breaths coming out in tiny pants and posture slouched, his feet dragging along the ground.

Crimson was told not to feel, not to express, not to show the weakness of emotion. They tried to take it all away from her, all of it, every single emotion. But it all came back; in flushes, under particular circumstances, one the harder days or on the calmer nights. Her fear became present, showing in her eyes and through the way she desperately fought against her bonds during her numbing; her sadness resulted in endless tears, sobbing, weeping, begging for relief; her anger returned, in the form of snapped necks and bullet holes. Then they forced her to submit and she was a clean slate, a blank piece of paper for them to cut out the perfect soldier.

“Ma’am,” the man to her left placed a warning hand on her shoulder and Crimson growled, twisting around and pressing the blade of her knife to his throat,

“ _You are not my handler_ ,” she seethed, digging her heel into the man’s instep and a single drop of blood seeped from his skin, trickling down his neck,

“Stand down soldier,” Michael held a gun to her head and Crimson snarled at him, her eyes flicking to every weapon that was pointed at her, even by strangers who had stopped in their tracks to aid in constraining her. She lowered the knife and placed it into Michael’s outstretched hand, “Don’t do that in the interrogation, they will not hesitate to kill you,” she did not reply, “Edith, you need to be neutral when you meet these men, they aren’t the most persuasive,” he waved an arm to the people around, letting them know that the situation was under control, “We’ll need to take your weapons away,”

“Who said I need them?” her voice was low, rugged and thick. They continued walking, a little faster than before, “Who is behind glass?” she asked as they entered the grey building, three other suited men joining the group just in case Crimson had another _episode_.

“The General Secretary of War and a few other officials,” was Michael’s hasty reply, “I understand that you’re used to being overlooked in everything you do,” Crimson nodded with a small frown, following Michael and the men down several identical corridors, all with pictures of yellowing certificates and paintings of smartly dressed people. There were doors on each side, all grey with silver handles, some with name plates and some with square number pads on the wall beside them.

It reminded her vaguely of the facility in Austria; white corridors and grey doors with horrors behind them that only Crimson knew of, scientists pouring out of them after a significant session that included a new type of pain that introduced itself to her immunity and then her own shivering body being led away soon after, led to her room to rest up until her next session or training drill.

“Edith?”

Michael held open a set of heavy brown doors open for her, the six suited men already walking inside,

“You have knife,” she hummed and he nodded in remembrance, “I cannot give hands though,”

“Very funny,” Michael simpered, taking out the weapon and tossing it towards another smartly dressed man, who grimaced upon learning the make of the knife, “She’s the most un-German you’ll ever meet George,” Michael had noticed the man’s expression and gave him a clap on the shoulder,

“If you say so Mike,” the man, named George, replied with a small sigh and placed the knife in a tray, on a table as the two passed. Crimson’s eyes flicked back at the shiny metal, feeling a little exposed without it.

Michael took her hand and led her down a few steps, stopping outside of a door that had two men dressed in American military uniform standing outside, clutching guns and trying very hard to not stare at her.

“I’ll be on the other side of the wall but I’m gonna have to cuff you ‘cause regulations,” he mumbled and Crimson obediently held her wrists out, allowing Michael to lock the dull metal around her skin. He muttered a small goodbye and strolled down the corridor a little way before entering another room. Edith turned to the two guards and they stared straight ahead as she opened the door with a suspicious ease, closing it and hearing it lock behind her. The room was empty apart from a table in the middle accompanied by three chairs, and oddly enough, a glass of water. She sat because there was nothing else to do and Crimson felt a little nervous, partly because she could feel at least seven pairs of eyes staring at her through the black glass opposite her and partly because there was very faint music playing in the background, something classical that she didn’t recognise.

“Morning,” the door opened and two men sauntered through, “I take it all weapons have been removed,” the first man was huge with a bulging stomach and a sweaty brow, holding a pile of files and several pencils. The second man was rather handsome, with mousy hair, grey eyes, broad shoulders and he wore a small smirk, “I hope you had a nice flight, these are dangerous times,”

He was new enough to interrogations that when he removed his suit jacket, there were dark stains beneath his arms. Crimson recoiled when he sat down, taking an instant disliking to his arrogance,

“I’m Finley McTavish,” he introduced himself and pointed over to his larger friend, “This is Pete but ignore him, he’s just my runner and script,”

Crimson spoke before she even realised,

“This conversation is being recorded,” her words were quick before she could chastise herself, “Why him?” her lips thinned and tightened, her throat closing automatically in order to prevent her from saying anything out without permission,

“He needs experience,” was the simple answer, “Just something light to start off with,” his words took Edith by surprise and she momentarily glanced at the glass window where she knew Michael was sitting,

“ _They will break you_ ,” were Michael’s words and she clenched her jaw, looking back at her interrogator and the script.

“Now,” Finely began, “What is your name?”

“I was told it Edith,” Pete wrote her answer down,

“What about your age? A date of birth might be helpful,”

“I cannot remember,”

“Where are you from? Hometown? Country? Anything?”

“I do not know,”

“What about your previous occupation?” Finley asked, now slightly pink in the face, “D’you remember any other jobs?”

When Crimson shook her head; Finley instantly lost his temper and stood up, scraping the metal chair along the floor,

“What do you mean ‘you don’t know’?” he seethed and she gulped, feigning nervousness,

“I mean exactly what I say sir,” she replied darkly, “My memories – gone nine days ago,” more writing and Finley sat back down with shaking limbs,

“Why were they ‘gone’? Did you break rules? Kill someone you weren’t supposed to,” he asked,

“I take life if I am ordered sir,” came the reply, “They wanted me to submit, emotion was not needed and I am void so I am efficient,” Finley was handed a manila envelope and he took out several pieces of paper,

“And we’re taking about HYDRA here right?” he seemed to be asking the onlookers behind him for there was a single tap on the glass to confirm, “Okay, d’you know where you were taken from?”

“London,” the word was out of her mouth before her mind could process it and it was written down,

“And tell me about the day,” Crimson went to say that it was hard to remember but Finley just held up his hand, “Try really hard, memories are never fully erased,”

Crimson clasped her hands in her lap, thinking and sweating under the pressure,

“There was a time, the first when I was wiped,” she recalled being brought to a chair and strapped to it, “Herr Doktor played images in my eyes; I saw things and I forgot, people walking and crying or laughing,” everything was written down and Crimson took a moment to watch Pete’s hand fly across his clipboard, “I saw myself; I think he was taking blood,”

“Doctor Zola you mean?” Pete’s voice was surprisingly deep and Finley flinched in shock, “Sorry sir,”

“Keep writing,” Finley hissed and Crimson stared, squeezing her fists so tight that her knuckles turned white. She was told to continue,

“I was in a chair and I wore blue, a dress I think. There was a tube and they only do that if they want blood,” Crimson clenched her eyes closed in concentration, smelling the chemicals and the oil that slicked the walls of that particular laboratory, “I remember they say I was worthy,”

“For experimentation?” Finley put in and Crimson shrugged her shoulders half-heartedly,

“I do not know,” came the answer and Pete let out a small huff, getting a glare in return,

“Our spy has informed us of a few experiments,” another folder was placed and opened up, “It says here that they gave you viruses and diseases, tell me about that,” Finley clasped his hands over the folder,

“It was efficiency,” Crimson informed him, “So I dominant in missions and in field, illness would have slowed me. They did everything to me so I would have no holding backs,”

“Like sterilise you for example?” Finley thought she was going to flinch but all he received was a small nod,

“It was necessary, I cannot remember the time,” Crimson thought back to the first man to come to her, “It was early because I think the first time was in 1940,”

“So you were a whore and a soldier, my; how adventurous?” Crimson opened to mouth to spit an insult at his words but he continued, “I suppose being sterile takes away that risk,”

“It was unwanted,” she calmed herself down a little, “They were my superiors and I was submit like I was taught, so they did what they wanted and I received orders to kill,” blood covered her hands and she could feel the snow beneath her feet, like the night of her first execution,

“All the orders,” Finley cast a side look to Pete who was sniffling slightly, “What did they make you do? Oral? Was there penetration?”

“It hard to remember,” Crimson didn’t want to pull those visions forwards, they were humiliating and painful in a way she was not used to, “They were dirty and made me bleed, I think show I was low to them,” this time, Pete let out a loud wail and seemed to launch himself to his knees in despair,

“What the fuck is wrong with you Pete?” Finely stood up in shock, “Why’re you crying? Jesus Christ man,”

“It’s just unfair – that she had to do all those horrible things!” Pete blubbered, “She can’t have kids, she can’t have a family and she was raped too many fucking times to remember! It’s not her fault, oh God, she was brainwashed and shit!” he was getting hysterical and the door opened, revealing a tall woman with a pinched face and immaculately curled hair,

“I have come to relieve you Mr Hardy,” the woman had a high pitched voice and Crimson hoped she would stay quiet as Pete shuffled out of the room, wiping his tears and snot on the cuffs of his shirt. The woman sat down primly and sat poised with the pencil ready in her thin fingers. Finley cleared his throat,

“As I was saying,” he continued, “Yeah, it’s shit that you got raped and made to feel inferior but I don’t care about that,” he paused to see whether his words had an effect on either women but none moved, “I want to know about executions, why did you have to perform them?”

“They were orders,” Crimson replied, “The crime was shown and I said the sentence and that was based on crime. Two bullets for betrayer’s of the state,” she went quiet and Finley sighed,

“Do you remember the first execution?” he asked the question like he already knew that the answer would be disappointing,

“Yes,” he perked up, “I remember them all,” her tone was dark but so very regretful, almost like she didn’t want to say it,

“Tell me,”

“It was winter, I remember - I had no shoes on and it was very cold,” Crimson sounded strained, shaking from the effort to recite the memory, “They gave me a gun after training and asked me to shoot. Targets got further and further away until they change to a person. They told me he had given secrets to the Polish, that he was a traitor and a spy so I should shoot him. I could not see his face, but I could smell how scared he was. My superior told me to shoot, shoot, shoot or you will be shot for disobeying,” she shuddered violently and shut her eyes, “I put bullet in his heart, took minutes to die,”

“Any others?” Finley had begun to sweat again, this time because he could see dents in the metal where her fingers had been digging into the table,

“There were many, I was immune to them so when the time came, I show no weakness in killing,” Crimson gulped a little and cast her eyes to the glass her, trying to search for Michael but all she saw was herself, pale and bleary eyed. She looked weak, almost ill, not like the weaponised soldier HYDRA had programmed her to be. She had to be strong, hard, and blank like they wanted her to be; she had to be immune to all.

 

The questions continued for what seemed like hours; Finley got very frustrated more times than one when Crimson claimed she couldn’t remember certain things, slamming his hands down in the table and throwing his chair across the room to let out his anger; Crimson hadn’t cried once, she hadn’t lost her temper and nothing Finley said had triggered a dangerous response.

“We’re just going to try one more thing,” he looked incredibly tired and downed the rest of his coffee, placing it on the floor beside two other empty mugs, “Jane here will say several words and you are going to answer with whatever comes to mind, okay?” the script woman pulled out a new sheet of paper and reshuffled her pile, settling herself a little more upright and alert,

“Miss Edith?” her voice sounded croaky from having not been in much use and Crimson found it oddly comforting,

“I am ready to comply,” the words hit her hard in the chest and Finley saw her throat and neck strain dangerously, as if she could not breathe properly. Jane nodded and looked at the paper,

“Day,” was the first word,

“Time,” came the reply,

“Night,”

“Cover,”

“Gun,”

“Shot,”

“Mission,”

“Completed,”

“America,”

“Free,”

“Ally,”

“Enemy,” Jane shuffled uncomfortably before continuing,

“Soldier,”

“Weapon,”

“Bird,”

“Advantage,”

“And last one,” Jane sounded slightly shaken, “Chaos,”

“Crimson,”


	11. Chapter 11

“You’re made of stone you are,” Michael returned three hours later with a sandwich and apple juice, “I wasn’t expecting you to react the way you did, I would’ve thought some of his words might have been a trigger at least,” Crimson shook her head, downing the drink in one and ripping open the paper wrap of the sandwich,

“They had a sequence I think, they had to say special words in a special order otherwise I would not comply. I do not remember the words, they block my memories so I do not resist,” she said with a mouthful, “Mr McTavish said about another questioning,” Michael tensed and nodded, lighting a cigarette with a match,

“Yeah, which could either go very right or completely shit,” he explained, “Your evaluation deems you fit for service under the government but that’s what the psycho-analysts say, the Secretary of War is popping down for a chat to see where you’ll go,” Crimson stopped eating momentarily,

“So I am going to be soldier,” Michael opened his mouth to retaliate, “For America,” and he nodded,

“I’ll be in the room too,” the door opened, “Don’t worry, if things go wrong; I’ll sort it out,” he threw away her sandwich and stood up for the man entering the room. He was middle aged with greying hair, wearing a pressed navy suite with many medals and crosses attached to the right breast. He was a superior and Crimson snapped to attention, trying to put her hands behind her back but failing due to the cuffs. The superior man sat down opposite her, two others in black suits standing in each corner with guns on their hips, obviously concealed.

General Dwight Eisenhower stared at the Crimson soldier with wide eyes,

“I didn’t know it was a woman,” he snarled causing Michael to splutter on his smoke and Crimson widened her eyes in shock, not understanding why her being a woman would change anything.

Silence.

“Why the hell is she here?” General Eisenhower said, his lip curling,

“Because I believe she can help us win the war,” Michael stated heavily, his tone grand and echoing, “General sir, she was trained to be a soldier and only a soldier; she follows orders to the detail, performs to exhaustion and obeys like a sick fucking dog,”

“Agent McTavish said she was a weapon,” Eisenhower commented curtly, “Of what kind? She looks like a normal woman,”

“A HYDRA weapon sir,” Michael replied, shrinking away subconsciously, “They trained her, experimented on her and mutated her,” Eisenhower leaned back in the chair and folded his hands beneath his chin,

“How about we talk about your capabilities mm? No harm in that,” he said with a shrug and Michael narrowed his eyes, “Can you shoot?” Crimson nodded, “Any weapon?” again, nodding, “Anything in particular you’re strong at?”

“Sniper, definitely,” Michael answered for her, “But records state close quartered gun fire is strong too,” Eisenhower gestured for him to continue, “Erm – she was trained under strict HYDRA military guidelines, with very good combat skills as well as the basic standard army tactics,” Michael seemed to trail off and Eisenhower clasped his hands on top of the table,

“Miss Edith,” his gaze was intense, “I know all of this, our source has been telegramming your files through so I have every detail of your physical capabilities and I must admit, I am very impressed with your performances,” this wasn’t a particular shock to Crimson, she knew there were spies within HYDRA but she never exposed them because there she was never ordered to, “However, I want to know what this – serum - gave you; what your capabilities are so that we may use them on the front lines, under your consent of course,” he added quickly,

“ _My consent_?” Crimson’s voice was hushed, speaking the words as if she had never heard them before.

She could not remember what that was. It was something she had certainly not come across recently; things were decided for her, planned in advance, written down on boards around the facility, typed up on to paper and placed in files with her name on them.

“Yes,” Eisenhower pushed, “What are your mutations?”

“Teleportation and energy generation,” she answered instantly, “Immunity and automatic adaption to temperature,” Crimson glanced down to her lap, instantly figuring out how to remove the cuffs and wondering why she hadn’t done so earlier,

“Teleportation?” Eisenhower spluttered, obviously not at all keeping up with scientific advances and Crimson nodded shortly,

“ _Herr Doktor_ explained it ‘shifting from one place to another through time and space’,” Crimson explained stonily, “It aided in combat as well as transportation possibilities,” Eisenhower was still pink in the face, struggling through the new information like he was wading through thick mud. Michael leaned forwards to take over,

“Think of it as moving from one end of the room to the other in the blink of an eye, completely disappearing and then reappearing milliseconds later,” he rubbed his hands together, “Files say she could transport people and objects across vast distances,” Eisenhower nodded very deliberately to show he finally understood,

“So if I asked her to fetch my nephew from school and take him home, and then return here; she could do it in five seconds _because_ of this teleportation?” he asked slowly and Michael nodded, and then shook his head,

“She could do it in less - but unfortunately she can’t ‘teleport’ because they put a fucking tracker in her chest that will go off if she does,” his notebook was open and his fingers were running over the notes he had taken mere hours ago, “They performed open heart surgery with no morphine and no pain killers, after she went into cardiac arrest. They put too higher pressure into her system during an immunisation,” his words stung everybody in the room now and beyond,

“So she can’t particularly help us,” Eisenhower sighed, lighting a cigar he had pulled from his pocket, “If she can’t teleport, then what use is she?” thoroughly slightly upset by the news, “Miss Edith is unstable and could be a potential threat to our soldiers. Agent Fitz, she’s on the run from a dangerous Nazi organisation, I can’t say that they won’t send out people to look for her,”

“The only time she will be a threat to us is if HYDRA even bothers to look for her and if she can fucking walk out of a highly guarded facility, through Belgium and Luxembourg then I think she is fine,” Michael retorted, offering Crimson a cigarette however she was not able to light it due to her hands shaking violently, “And you’ve forgotten one major fact General,” Michael lit the cigarette for her and rolled up his own, “Miss Edith is already a soldier, her orders come from her superior command, which at this point is me. And who says that she can’t use her shields. We enlist her, train her and use her to win the war!” Michael seemed to be getting rather excited and Crimson swallowed the smoke instead of exhaling it. Eisenhower nodded with a sigh,

“Fitz, I am tired and stressed,” he rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, “I agree that she will join the army but she must complete each and every order we give her, even if it means certain annihilation,” Michael and Crimson both nodded, “Miss Edith must only use her other powers if completely necessary and until the tracker is removed I do not expect any ‘teleportation’,” Crimson sat back in her chair with an air of surprise, “I do not want my men in danger, I do not want her unstable and acting in command when she is not. She will be treated as any man would and if I see a mission fit just for her, I expect no arguments when she is to complete it. A woman joining the army,” he puffed out in amazement, “A _super strong mutated_ woman joining my army – what has the world come to?”

 

 

“So what? They’re letting you enlist? Just like that?” Crimson could hear Josef Margot’s grin from down the telephone, “That’s bat-shit crazy; I didn’t actually think they would _agree_ ,”

“I asked things though, is that alright?” she asked and Joseph laughed, “Why you laughing?”

“This is a free country sweetheart, you can do what you want,” he chuckled and Michael, who was sitting next to her in General Eisenhower’s office while she made the call, grinned widely at the sound of his employer’s booming laugh, “However, it depends on what terms you set down,”

“I said I want to be safe,” she explained nervously, “I said them that I would need triple dose of morphine and that my files were hide,” Michael sighed at this,

“Updating and keeping your files confidential is a lengthy process Edith,” Crimson’s shoulders dropped, slouching into the chair and holding out her hand to where Michael was taking out a cigarette,

“You know these cause lung disease,” he commented, although giving her one and lighting it,

“I am immune,” she pointed to her chest and Michael flinched at her words, deciding against having his own cigarette, “They said I choose a new name, but that they would build a ‘patchy history’ for me,” she continued on to Josef,

“What the fuck do they mean, ‘patchy history’?” Josef exclaimed in distress and Crimson huffed out, not happy with what they said either,

“I was born in America, trained in a military school in Canada and did in heavyweight boxing as a hobby,” she repeated what Finley McTavish had told her not half an hour ago, the man himself entering the room with a glass of scotch,

“Bullshit,” Josef swore gingerly, spitting down the phone and Crimson turned to Finley as he sat on the sofa next to Michael, setting down a clean file with a blank name tag,

“Josef does not like your story,” she informed him and Finley grinned, shrugging his shoulders and taking out a smart fountain pen,

“Unless he’s got any big ideas, he better butt out of it,” he chuckled, “Come up with any names yet?”

Crimson shook her head, going back to hearing Joseph make up a story about her,

“You could be a POW from Dunkirk, settles your military knowledge -,” Josef tried but Crimson stopped him,

“The British did not let woman on front lines,” she informed him and he swore down the receiver, but Michael’s head perked up,

“How about you were living in Belgium and you were taken by the Germans to be trained as an assassin -,” Josef tried again, obviously very excited about making up a story,

“No German stories Joe,” Finley groaned, “Too suspicious, she could be labelled as a spy,” and Josef agreed when Crimson relayed the information. Michael suddenly snatched the pen from Finley’s fingers and hastily beginning to fill in the blank boxes on the file,

“You were born in Dover 1917,” he narrated as he wrote, “Your family migrated to Washington in 1925, first job was a librarian and then trained up in the SAC, Specialised Army Corps in 1935 –completely made up; and then joined the Airborne,” Michael concluded, Crimson repeating his words for Joseph to hear and from the silence at the end of the receiver, she knew the story was final,

“Private Evelyn Phillips,” Finley said, startling the two others and he flushed scarlet, “I think Evelyn suites you, or Eve; depends if you like nicknames or not,” Crimson slowly nodded her head but her confusion was with something else, something Michael had said,

“What is Airborne?” she asked Josef, watching Finley neatly write down the fake name on the front of the file and then proceed to fill in her medical details, which they had decided were based on her real identity,

“Soldiers that jump out of planes with sheets on their heads,” he joked and Crimson exhaled in frustration, “Alright, they are Paratroopers trained to take the enemy from within, the government is trying them out and I assume Michael wants you to go there,” Crimson nodded, blushing when she realised that Josef could not see her,

“Yeah, they don’t teach them how to parachute in the SAC,” Michael grinned, snatching the pen off Finley and flicking him on the head with it, “Does she look she weighs 110 pounds? You moron, put down a real weight,” Finley merely grumbled in response,

“Look, Edith,” Josef sighed, “I have to go, duty calls but I’ll call you in a couple of months to see how you’re doing and I’ll keep Michael over in America to keep tabs on you,” he explained and Crimson could hear voices on the other end of the phone,

“Okay,” she agreed to his terms, “But it is Evelyn now, Private Phillips; Mr McTavish thought it,” she smiled at the name, already becoming fond of it. There was a grunt in reply and the receiver clicked off, Crimson moving the wooden chair closer to where Finley and Michael were arguing over her marital status.

She smiled.

Evelyn Phillips. A Private in the world of men, going to fight alongside a country she was born to follow. She was worried yes; of the days when her vision blurred and turned red, when someone would anger her in some way and then she would not be able to control her hands or her strength. She was a woman; she was bound to get trodden on, told she couldn’t fight, that she was a pansy and that she should be at home with the other women, pining after a lost soldier lover.

“What if I cannot control myself?” she whispered suddenly and Michael’s hands instantly encased hers,

“Evelyn, as we’re supposed to call you now,” he tried to smile but her downcast eyes prevented her from returning it, “We’ll help you; I’ll help you ease the nightmares and follow the right orders…,” Michael looked expectantly at Finley, Evelyn still staring down at her lap,

“And I’ll show you how to pretend to out of breath when you run, and when you do drills, I’ll show you how to go easy on the others,” Finley continued cheerily, “Can’t have them getting jealous of our special soldier now do we?” Evelyn managed to smile at his tone and she watched him stand,

“Right, you go and make up a background for the SAC,” Michael ordered, “And we’ll find some accommodation for you,” he turned to Evelyn, finding her stood to attention with her arms straight at her sides, “God fucking damnit Eve, we’re not in the army yet, at ease,” he hissed, running a hand through his hair. Finley scooped up the file and rushed out, bidding them goodnight.

Evelyn’s shoulders relaxed once more as he left the room and she blew out a short breath,

“Sorry,” she rubbed her right elbow and Michael rolled his eyes,

“We’ll deal with that first, you can’t keep assuming orders will come from me or your handler; you have to obey your commanding officer and he could be a complete stranger,” he told her firmly, “The front lines are unpredictable, you might be answering to one person and following another, then they both get shot and you have to receive orders from a different guy,” he picked up his coat and beckoned her forward, lighting a cigarette and shoving it into her fingers, “The higher ranking officers will try and take you out of the Airborne with every little thing wrong you do, they will prevent any promotions and constantly demoralise you -,” Evelyn hissed as she strode next to him, exiting the grey building and opening the door to the car they had arrived in,

“I executed those who touched,” she growled and Michael patted her knee with an equally grim expression,

“That’s great, but you can’t shoot your commanding officer because he says something mean about your - assets,” Michael saw her eyes dart down to her chest, turning slightly pink, “it’s actually quite handy that your more petite,”

“They told me it was _easier_ ,” she was again reminded of Schmidt’s pinched face and of how his black eyes looked her over once, the first time she was nude before him and he had said that she _would do perfectly_.

“He saw you naked?” Michael spat, leaning his head back against the seat in disgust,

“Evaluations required nudity for accuracy, I was not given chance to care,” No one had said anything about her body, except for her wide hips, saying that she would have been a good mother.

“Well, I suppose that’s a good thing seeing as you won’t get special showers or a separate room to get dressed in, the men’ll just have to get used to it,” Michael said lowly, Evelyn snuffing out her cigarette and stretching her legs out, “You’ll have to be very careful around them Eve, the officers would jump at the chance to penalise you for ‘fraternising’,” he informed her and to his surprise, Evelyn let out a breathy laugh, her eyes suddenly shining,

“I cannot bear child remember?” she explained, rather roughly for Michael’s liking and he recoiled visibly, nodding grimly, “It would be inconvenient should I conceive or have menstrual cycle,” she saw him redden at the words,

“Unfortunately, that will increase your chance of enlistment,” he said mournfully, “Jesus, I’ve always wanted kids and I know I can; you have no choice,” Evelyn coughed quietly and shrugged,

“I have no time think about family,” she informed him,

“I guess you had all chances of a future taken away from you huh?” Michael was sympathetic and all Evelyn could do was nod tearfully, not even understanding why she was upset. Children, a family, a husband and love was extinguished from her system the first time a guard had visited her; Schmidt had removed all hope for a normal future in a small house in the country with a partner and a garden and horses and roses. It was a vision that plagued her dreams, of a man who held her out of love and adoration, of a farm house with stables, of a meadow full of wildflowers and corn, of a life without HYDRA and her mutations.

Evelyn didn’t know she was weeping until Michael sat her down in his kitchen with a glass of whiskey and a box of tissues.

 


	12. Chapter 12

They ate steak in silence and Evelyn was shown how to use the shower, where her room was and where her new clothes were stored. She spent nearly half an hour washing after Michael had informed her that there was no time limit on cleaning and he went off to use a second shower in his room. There were plenty of soaps and bottles of shampoos that Evelyn indulged herself in trying all of them until the water ran clear and her hair shined like fresh snow. The towel was white and soft, turning her skin red when she rubbed too hard and Evelyn choked when she looked in the mirror. The skin around her eyes was bruised, gaunt and yellowing over her cheekbones and jaw, cheeks rosy from the heat; her eyes weren’t as bleak as before and her hair stuck up from her head in all directions. Padding through to the bedroom on redwood floors, Evelyn started crying again when she saw the bed; there was a nightgown draped over the end on top of a fur quilt, several plump pillows sat at the head and were covered in a sheet. Evelyn plucked the gown up, feeling the satin run over her skin like water when she put it on. The towel fell to the floor as she hesitantly and very cautiously got under the covers, wiping her eyes with the sheet and laying her head on the down filled pillows. It was uncomfortable because she was used to sleeping on the floor or on the rock hard mattress that HYDRA had given her and this – this was too much.

Michael found her whimpering into a pillow, biting it to stifle her noises as she cried about the luxuries he had provided her with,

“I do not understand!” she kept yelping, “What have I done?” it was as if the bed, the clothes and the warmth were punishments or they were going to make way for something awful, “What is going to happen?”

“Nothing Evelyn,” Michael soothed her, “Soldiers are used to sleeping on their feet and on concrete, it will take some getting used to,” he didn’t want to touch her, just in case something happened, “You might remember how your bed felt at home or in London,” he kept speaking until Evelyn yawned groggily, tracing her fingers continuously on the back of his hand,

“I think you right,” she mumbled, “I think I am from Dover,” Michael tried to hide his surprise and excitement, “I remember white cliffs, huge and – and lots of wind,” Evelyn yawned again, “But I do not remember where Dover is,” and she muttered a little ‘sorry’ before drifting off to sleep.

Not three hours later, Michael was woken by a strange gurgling sound and he shot out of bed, kicking Evelyn’s door open and holding his gun out in front of him. The gun dropped and his jaw fell slack, eyes streaming at what he saw on the bed. Evelyn was writhing as if in intense pain, her mouth open with silent screams and her limbs twitching into inhuman positions, her fingers curling and her back arching so sharply that Michael immediately though she had broken something. She threw a fist into her mouth to muffle a screech, kicking her legs out and rolling around in the sheets,

“Holy shit!” Michael cried and leapt over to the bed, clicking his fingers in front of Evelyn’s face and grunting when her eyes rolled into the back of her head. He dared not attempt to restrain her for the bed creaked dangerously when she threw herself around, obviously trying to get away from a pain that she had made up in her head,

“Evelyn wake up!” he tried, “Kid, it’s not real god damnit!” she slowed for a moment, reaching out to him even though her eyes were still white and her muscles were still shuddering, “Yeah, that’s right,” Michael urged, just barely touching her open palm, “This pain is all in your head, you need to tell yourself that you are safe,” a second hand wrapped around her wrist, as if pushing herself towards him, “Say it with me Eve, ‘I am safe, this isn’t real’,”

She opened her mouth and nothing came out for a second,

“ _I am safe_ ,” he groaned at her German, “This is not real,”

Evelyn gasped and her eyes rolled forwards, her chest heaving with hoarse pants and her nightgown was soaked in sweat. They stared at each other for a moment in complete silence, both breathing heavily before Evelyn leant over the side of the bed, vomited violently and then fainted. That night Michael stayed in her room, stuffed into am arm chair with the fur throw around his knees and she didn’t wake up until noon the next day.

 

They had croissants, ham and cheese for brunch, Evelyn spending the hour after in the bathroom vomiting it back up because her stomach was not yet used to such rich and luxurious foods,

“I got my housekeeper to go out and get you purees and pulses,” Michael sat on the toilet while Evelyn showered, rinsing the vomit out of her nightgown and from her skin, “And we’ll start you on soups too, light ones like my mom used to make,” he scratched his chin, “I might still have her recipe book somewhere,” Evelyn attempted to get out, not caring for Michael and he stuttered helplessly at her nudity before darting out of the room with a purple face. She emerged minutes later clothed in a white blouse and a navy skirt that ghosted her shins,

“This is odd,” she ruffled the skirts and stumbled a little, “I had uniform and it was black and armoured. This is so light,” Michael nodded and led her into the kitchen where the housekeeper, a petite and kind eyed black women who frequently said ‘call me Miss Mary’, was depositing a jar of red sauce into a glass bowl,

“Thought I’d put some cherries in there too,” Miss Mary had a deep Southern accent, “T’make it more appetising, you don’t hav’ta eat them if you don’t wanna,” Evelyn sat down at the circular table in the middle of the kitchen and accepted the bowl, almost smiling at the cherries arranged in a heart in the sauce. She nodded at Miss Mary because she didn’t know what else to do and began to eat, a lot slower than before and tasting each mouthful specifically. The sauce was smooth and tasted of strawberries, it wasn’t particularly sweet but it was better than raw chicken or a grey pulse. Michael entered the room with a pile of letters and a telegram,

“This is your enlistment letter,” he waved one in the air, “Suggests going to OCS but you’re not ready for that shit, no one goes there anymore anyway,” he placed it on a small pile of yellow forms and took out another letter, “This you gotta fill out with your measurements for uniforms and you’re gonna get a skirt for your Class A’s,” Evelyn stopped eating for a moment,

“What are Class A’s?” she asked and Michael continued filing through his post,

“Like dress greens you know? A uniform you wear to parades or inspections or ceremonies or parties or some fancy shit and ‘cause you’re a dame, they didn’t want you in pants so you got a skirt like the WASPs,” he explained quickly, stuffing a manila envelope into his pocket, “The telegram is from Finn, he wants to have the first session today if that’s alright,” Michael’s eyes flicked to hers and Evelyn nodded obediently, still not used to having a choice, “You can say no, you had a pretty shitty night so he’ll understand -,”

“No, I want to,” it felt odd to say the word, to want something, “I think it might be good - start now,” Miss Mary was humming to herself, obviously not wanting to eavesdrop on the conversation and Evelyn sniffed, “When do I start with you?” she asked,

“Well, officially today but we had to survive last night so we started a bit earlier,” Michael downed the rest of his coffee and pulled on a smart jacket, straightening out his tie before cocking his head towards the door, “Shall we get going?” Evelyn stood but did not move, “We’re going to my office for security and confidentiality, but mostly ‘cause it’s closer to Finn’s building,” she still didn’t move and she flattened her hands against the outsides of her thighs, feeling over her hips and up past her ribs,

“I need a gun,” she hissed, “It means safe,” Evelyn swooped her eyes over his body, “I know you have a gun, and others round you so it would be easy to spare one,” she spoke with a chilling authority and Michael wanted to obey her because he was afraid of what would happen if he didn’t, but he shook his head,

“I’m sorry,” he took her upper arm and pulled her towards the door, “Can’t risk it, might go all ‘crimson’ on my secretary,” she nodded but her frown did not dissolve, not even when they were stopped by Miss Mary to retrieve back the kitchen knife Evelyn had stolen and then discovered that they were having leek soup for dinner with fresh rolls. Michael sent her scolding glares the whole journey, noticing her resolve softening a little when he opened the window for her to let the frosty morning wind ruffle her short hair. Evelyn decided that she liked Washington D.C, even when they got stuck in traffic and were stopped by police because Michael was speeding, even when it started snowing and people stared at her because she wasn’t wearing a coat and had warm, rosy cheeks. Anything was better than HYDRA.

 

Michael had changed the instant they entered his office, bring out a notepad and fountain pen, and sitting down at his desk. He gestured for Evelyn to do the same and she was hesitant, glancing around at every window, door and wall to search for an easy escape route. It was routine, something she had been programmed to do in every situation she was in and she couldn’t turn it off,

“Tell me about your nightmare,” Michael’s tone was sharp and Evelyn straightened her back with a small sniff, “Which one is the most common?”

“Immunisation,” she replied immediately and her fists clenched but she didn’t dare question Michael’s professionalism, she never did when doctors were assessing her, “There is always pain,” she wondered why he was not writing anything down,

“Physical or emotional?” he asked and Evelyn turned a shade darker before replying,

“Both,”

“And what causes this pain, in your dreams?” he was twirling the pen around in his hand,

“The immunisation,” Evelyn was seething and they hadn’t even been at it for ten minutes,

“Does it feel real?” Michael seemed to be taking no notice of her discomfort,

“You saw last night,” and to that he shook his head,

“I’m your counsellor, you have to describe the feelings you felt,” the chair cracked beneath her fists and Evelyn swallowed,

“I could not breathe,” Michael had issued her an order and she had to comply, whether she liked it or not, “I could not see, I had no control over my body - muscles cramped and nerves hurt,”

“Can you ignore it?”

“Obviously not,” the words came out through her teeth and Michael sighed, leaning forwards very seriously,

“I am asking you questions others would ask,” he explained, “If you wake up with a nightmare like last time, people are gonna ask questions Eve,”

“How do I stop nightmares?” it was an obvious question, one that Michael smiled at and he gladly began scribbling down notes as he taught her how her pain was no longer real, how she was safe and he told her that she had to convince herself that it was only a dream. It was simple really and Michael made her feel rather patronised when they exited the office two hours later, and quite tired too. He told her that she would feel mentally exhausted after each session because there were so many things ‘wrong’ with her and Evelyn nodded dully, accepting the cup of juice he handed her,

“So I go through that every day?” she said, “Until I get sent to a training camp?” they rounded a corner and a tall, broad man stepped in front of them with a cigarette hanging from his lips,

“Howdy Finn,” Michael clapped the man on the shoulder and Finn swore, dropping the cigarette into the snow, “Sorry, have my packet,”

“Nah, I don’t even know why I started,” Finn squeezed Evelyn’s hand, “I’m just about to exercise and nasty lungs will slow me down,” he led the two inside the building, which was rather extensive from what Evelyn could see and smelt vaguely of sweat, “This is the CIA’s overflow PT building, there won’t be a lot of people here today because of the snow,” they walked into a changing room and over to a rusting green locker which was already open, displaying separate piles of pairs of green trousers and blue t-shirts. There was only one other man in the room, showering in a stall and humming to himself, ignoring the three others who had joined him. Michael raised an eyebrow at the man’s bare behind and Evelyn noticed a pink flush around his nose,

“This is your locker; it’s got everything you need,” Finn explained, handing her trousers and a t-shirt, “And these changing rooms are men’s because we haven’t got any broads yet,” he was already dressed in a similar attire and he had a pair of white plimsolls on his feet, “We’ll leave you to get dressed and just come through this door when you’re done,” Finn clapped her on the back and nudged Michael, exiting the changing room through a green door directly to her left. The man in the shower continued to clean himself as Evelyn hurriedly shed her clothes, putting on the new ones and she smoothed her hair back before going through the door Finn had indicated. There was a huge gymnasium on the other side complete with an eight hundred meter running track, a separate one hundred meter sprint track, long jump, high jump, a cordoned off area that held weights, huge tires and metal frames meant for pull ups. It was high ceilinged and the walls were panelled with a fake wood, with flood lights in every corner and on every wall. It was so different to the chamber that HYDRA trained her in with green walls and hardly any light, metal beams every ten meters that she had to dodge when engaging in hand to hand combat. The ground beneath her feet was concrete but as she moved forwards, on to the track, she found it to be made of a slightly spongier material. Evelyn glanced around; spotting a second door leading to toilets and a stairwell descending to what she assumed was the basement, used as a firing range according to the blue sign hanging next to the stairs.

“We’ll try that later,” Finn appeared next to her with a stopwatch round his neck and a clipboard nestled against his hip, “I gotta assess your physical fitness first,” he cocked his head behind him, towards where Michael was sitting on a bench smoking with a grim look on his face, “He’s gonna see how you react,”

“But training is not a trigger,” Evelyn informed him and Finn nodded,

“We know but Michael saw you falter a little when you came in,” she cleared her throat and stood a little straighter,

“It is light in here, I was trained in darkness,” Evelyn explained and Finn nodded again, fiddling with his stopwatch,

“Shit,” he dropped it, “Okay, you go and do a few laps to warm up and I’ll go get a new watch, fucking piece of shit,” he mumbled, stalking off to a small window where a dark haired woman sat reading a magazine. Evelyn gulped a little, ignoring the looks a few of the men were sending her as she passed, lining herself up on the outside lane. She set off briskly, remembering fleetingly that her coaches had let her warm up a bit before training and they told her to run six laps, just so she was out of breath but not too tired so she couldn’t focus properly. It was painful the first few times and she nearly always got a punishment for fainting or vomiting, but they built her up, let her rest for a short few minutes before launching into press ups or punches. She saw those same men staring at her with each lap, subtly correcting each other’s form and adding more weights to make them seem more intimidating to her. It wasn’t until her fourth lap did Finn return, and one of the men decided to join her,

“You must be a new recruit,” he was very tall, very skinny and had quite a large mouth that stretched into a grin when Evelyn turned red at his voice. He fell into step with her, matching her pace easily, “We ain’t seen you around before,”

“It is my first time,” she replied shortly, not daring to increase her speed because that would show that she was scared, and she refused to be scared,

“You with the CIA then?” he asked and Evelyn shook her head, “I am, my name’s -,”

“Johnny, stop harassing my patient,” Evelyn ground to a halt at Michael’s booming voice but ‘Johnny’ kept on running with a laugh,

“Fuck off Mike,” he called, re-joining his friends and setting himself up on the pullup bar, causing Finn to groan in dismay,

“Careful with that one,” he warned, but not playfully, “He likes new women, likes them innocent,” Evelyn thought that she should grimace but she didn’t, flexing her shoulders instead, “Okay, for starters, that warmup was longer than anyone I’ve seen – you don’t need to do five laps, two would have been fine,” Finn told her grumpily, scribbling Evelyn’s name at the top of the paper on his clipboard, “We’ll start with your sprint,” her ears perked up and she trotted over to the separate track in the middle of the eight hundred meter one, waiting for Finn to take his mark to her right.

He stood on the left and Evelyn started to panic. Her coaches always stood to her right, and Schmidt was on her left, studying her from up in the glass box; with Finn’s eyes on her, all she could think about was those weeks when she did sprint after sprint to prove that she wasn’t a failure,

“Eve?” Finn called, “I’m here because I need to time you, and I’m not judging you in any way,” he was reassuring, but the eyes on her back were not, belonging to Johnny and his friends. Evelyn was used to pressure of viewings, lots of people scrutinising her all at once, writing down notes on how she started, how she kept her eyes down and not at her finish mark, how she reacted to the pistol sounding, how she cooled down after by walking around and not collapsing on the ground. She wasn’t attuned to kind, gentle urgings from a young man in a brightly lit room that held around ten people at that very second,

“Hey Finn?” Michael called suddenly, recognising Evelyn’s distraction and her zoning out, “Maybe try something else to start?” he suggested and Finn glanced in her direction, sighing at her glassy eyes and thinning lips,

“I thought you said training wasn’t a trigger,” he said, Michael strolling over and lighting up another cigarette,

“You must’ve done something different to what she’s used to-,” Michael paused mid-drag, hearing a shaky sigh from down the track and Finn clapped him on the shoulder,

“Looks like she adapts pretty well,” Evelyn was staring at them, quite pale and digging her fingers into the ground in anticipation, “Ready?” he called and she nodded, “Set, GO!”

Evelyn flew down the track, head down, arms and legs pumping, lips parted and letting out tiny, controlled breaths. She shot past the two men, slowing to a stop and beginning to pace back and forth calmly while both Michael and Finn gaped at her in pure disbelief,

“I am sorry,” she wasn’t even short of breath or flushing like anyone else would. Michael’s cigarette embers were dangerously close to his fingers and Finn tried to jot down her time, his hand shaking, “How did I do? Will I do it again?” it felt a little odd asking questions because her coaches had previously just shouted instructions at her and if she didn’t understand, she had to improvise,

“You got seven seconds exactly,” Michael croaked and Finn finally managed to write down her time,

“Well,” the younger man gasped, “Let’s see what else you can do,”

Michael made Evelyn repeat the sprint three times, getting seven seconds each time and causing him to walk out of the building in sheer disbelief; Finn marvelled at her stamina on the long distance dash (“Fifteen miles a day? Holy shit,”); he told her to see how many pull ups, press ups, squat thrusts and sit ups she could do in one minute and then he proceeded to get her to demonstrate one armed pull ups until exhaustion for the other CIA agents who had tagged along to watch her. Then they trekked down to the firing range to test out her aim; Evelyn received a free admission into the Hostage Rescue Team in the CIA after she shot and reloaded four rounds in exactly a minute, hitting the target every time. They tried army issued rifles, an M-1 which she’d be using in the Airborne, American pistols (“They are very slow, and heavy,”) and a state of the art sniper rifle which looked suspiciously like the one HYDRA had issued her; and Evelyn only had problems with the machine guns because in HYDRA, she worked alone and machine guns require at least two persons.

Finn took her out to dinner afterwards, meeting up with Michael in the diner a little way down from the CIA building, and they discussed her training aims and schedule,

“You’re gonna be with Finn all day Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Saturday, and then on Sunday mornings; then you’ll have me in the afternoons as well as Thursday and Friday,” Michael was tearing at his steak, getting oil and fat down his shirt, “Your training is a form of therapy and until the official recruitment letter comes through; you’re stayin’ with us,” Finn downed his beer and lit a cigarette, flicking the ashes into his empty bottle,

“You don’t really need extra training, just like acting classes,” he began, “You don’t sweat, you don’t pant or cough or get stitches; your weaponry training is near to perfect; your hand to hand combat needs reeling in though,” Evelyn sipped her coke and arranged her burger neatly in sections, eating them individually from the bun at the bottom to the melted cheese on top, “I’ll help you not snap someone’s arm off and how to pretend you’re out of breath,”

“Why?” Evelyn asked, confused,

“Because nobody likes a girl who is stronger, faster and smarter than himself,” Michael grunted, “You don’t want to rouse suspicion and you don’t want to get bullied for being ‘perfect’. Finn’ll give you acting lessons for training and for combat but you keep your god damn guns – nearly everyone knows how to shoot around here,” he leaned forwards and pointed at her with his meat knife, “Don’t ever give them a reason to be suspicious or disrespectful, you’re a soldier and you will be treated like a piece of shit,” Evelyn sighed at his words and she pushed her plate away, no longer hungry,

“I think I handle it,” she told the two, “Anything is better than HYDRA,”


	13. Chapter 13

_May 1st 1944_

“Plan has changed sweetheart,” Michael burst into his office with his shirt partially untucked and his tie swinging from his back pocket, “You’re not going to the Airborne,” Evelyn was sat reclined in a leather chair, fanning herself with an envelope and attempting to cross her ankles. It was a sweltering day, so hot that it seemed that the tarmac covering the ground was melting as the two hurried out of the building. Evelyn was wearing a light blue overcoat and was receiving many strange looks by passers-by, who were sweating in their thin cotton dresses or linen shirts. Michael was struggling to knot his tie with his purple fingers, swollen from the heat and simply gave up as they approached his car.

“Where are we going?” Evelyn was nervous as the car turned in the opposite direction to home and Michael sped along the road she knew led eventually to the War Offices, “What is wrong?”

“There is something coming up soon and General Eisenhower has asked to see you again,” Michael swore at another driver, “I think he has something big planned for you,”

Evelyn wondered what America wanted her to do, making up scenarios in her head all the way to the offices. It was the same drab building she has been taken to on her first afternoon in America, when she had been interrogated by Finley and by General Eisenhower himself before being signed off as ‘fit for duty’. The walls were still grey, the people were still easy to read as they pushed passed in green, brown and grey uniforms, and the corridors still reminded her of the Facility back in Austria. Michael led her to a new part of the building, so new that the bricks hadn’t been plastered yet so the walls were bare and rough as she brushed against them. The doors were wide and brown instead of small, dirty and white which relaxed her for a little while, and there were huge windows on one side of the corridor that gave a wonderful view of the green that surrounded the offices; recruits were jogging around in tight formations, young women were chattering together in groups of three, men in glittering uniforms were sat smoking on benches and every so often a rabbit would streak across from one patch of woods to another. The sky was a deep blue and the sun cast brownish shadows on to the closely shaven grass, dotted with daisies and crocuses. Evelyn only got a few seconds to look outside before she was ushered into a bright room filled with shouting men and obedient women. The carpet was the same pattern as the wall paper, a rich green with golden Fleur De Lis lined vertically down towards the floor and up towards the ceiling which was a simple cream colour. On one wall there was a huge map of Europe with several colourful arrows pinned to it, and on all the other walls were frosted windows, none of which were open so the room was painfully hot amidst all the shouting an raging. Towards the board, was a high table around which four women were sat with delicately curled hair and smart green uniforms on, holding long sticks and pushing miniature boats and planes around an identical map to the one on the wall; these women seemed to be constantly changing their actions due to the all the different commands being thrown at them from all manner of direction. From where Evelyn was standing, the table with the women was directly in front of her and to her right was a second table, this one a deep polished oak and was very long with many chairs surrounding it, all of which were empty. The men who were supposed to be seated were jumping around, pointing angrily, fanning themselves with confidential war plans and hassling each other. Evelyn spotted General Eisenhower towards the front of the room, telling a blonde woman to add more boats and then changing his mind, thumping the table angrily when a second old man with a greying beard pushed forwards to correct the mistake himself.

“And you thought you were chaos,” Michael whispered to her with a smirk and strode forwards, leaving Evelyn to the mercy of the door clerk who turned out to be a very sweet, very friendly young man with large glasses and long front teeth. She tried to pay attention to him asking about her work and what she was doing in the war room, but Michael was attempting to get the General’s attention and that to her was far more entertaining that a door clerk.

“MR DWIGHT!” the room silenced as Michael bellowed into the General’s ear, “Sir,” he added shakily and gestured behind to Evelyn, “I brought her along, like you asked sir,” she thought that General Eisenhower was going to laugh and turn her away menacingly because his forehead was slowly turning purple and his eyes were popping out of his skull,

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes Miss Evelyn,” he opened his arms to her and she walked forwards, “You’ve grown more sweeter than the last I saw you,” Evelyn blushed furiously as the entire room turned to watch,

“Thank you sir,” she replied quietly,

“And your English has improved too! You sound just like a native!” he bellowed, turning a shade darker to her horror and Michael chose to intervene,

“She is from Dover sir, in the South of Britain,” he commented slyly and Eisenhower dropped his enthusiasm immediately,

“Well Mr Fitz, let’s see if I can convince this ‘unconvincible’ War Cabinet to use her, shall we?” Eisenhower’s voice dropped very low, so only Michael could hear before straightening out his jacket and smoothing his hair, “This woman here my fine gentlemen, was brought to me about a year ago now by this young fellow,” he clapped Michael roughly on the shoulder and he turned pink, “she is the result of illegal human experimentation at the hands of HYDRA,”

There was an uproar, louder than before and Evelyn shrunk away from the screwed up faces and bristling moustaches, finding herself being drawn into Eisenhower’s side with his arm wrapped tightly around her shoulders,

“Now, now gentlemen – hear me out!” his voice was sharper than the rest and the volume diminished slightly, “She escaped a Facility, ran from Germany to Belgium and has been training under our watch for the last ten months. Her abilities are nothing like anyone has ever seen before, enough to win us the war I fear,”

“You’ve brought us a circus freak!” the accent was British and Evelyn perked up a little, trying to search for the source, “I do not want a – a HYDRA mutant fighting for me when there is the risk that she could turn against us,”

“Major, you do realise that this room is full of the most influential people of the war and she has not moved from General Eisenhower’s side,” a second voice put in, “I want to hear this plan, see what she can do,”

“Mr Fitz, if you would,” Michael was gestured forward and he delved into his briefcase – which Evelyn had not noticed beforehand – bringing out several sheets of paper with hand drawn diagrams on them. He held up the first, an outline of her body with several notes around it,

“She was subject to a process called ‘Immunisation’ which involved passing chemicals around her body and inflicting brutal pain upon her until she felt nothing, and could heal any wound in a matter of seconds. She has scars from the needles – look,” he wrenched Evelyn forward and rolled up her shirt sleeve, revealing the skin of the inside of her elbow which was only purple now, but still horribly disfigured. Several people in the room gasped and made noises of shock, “Because of this, she is almost invincible,”

“So I could shoot her and she would simply heal the wound, no harm done?” the same British major spoke up and Michael grinned brightly at him,

“The bullet would have to get past her shields first,” he said smugly and the entire room seemed to splutter in shock at the same time, “Evelyn, if you would be so kind,”

She nodded with a frown and raised one hand, a shield appearing in front of her and Eisenhower. It was like a thin glass film that moved like water did, rippling and dipping and swirling in the light, blue wisps travelling across it like shadows. Someone remarked quietly that it was beautiful and someone else spat out an insult in pure disgust,

“Go on, touch it,” Michael urged one of the woman sat around the table and she leaned forward in wonder, reaching out a thin finger and pressing it up against the shield. The connection of skin to shield made a small fizzing sound, and a haze of blue erupted from the tip of her finger, growing bigger when the woman pushed against the shield more firmly,

“It feels funny – cold almost but not uncomfortable – like very smooth metal,” the woman peered up at Evelyn in wonder as the shield dropped, fading away into nothing.

“This shield can withstand anything you throw at it, trust me we’ve tried everything we know,” Michael tried to joke but upon seeing that the men in the room were still in a state of shock, he refrained from humour, “It can also expand to great lengths and she can destroy buildings with it – using it almost as a shock wave or earthquake,”

“So what are you proposing?” one man asked, wearing a navy uniform with gold tags and lots of shining medals upon his right breast, “What do you want to do with her General?”

Eisenhower let go of Evelyn and moved back to the board on the wall, using a long thin pole to point at four red arrows on the map,

“I want to use her to invade Europe my friends,”

Evelyn was escorted out of the room after that, being told by the door clerk to wait on the bench and she was given a glass of sweetened tea to pass the time. She could hear Michael shouting and different men arguing for her and against her, all of them raising their voices unnecessarily which meant that anyone passing the door could hear what was going on inside. She knew that they were just debating her use and position in the war, not the actual war itself and she wondered why Eisenhower was planning to invade Europe. Evelyn had been told about the Fuhrer, but HYDRA has said that he was a wronged man and Michael had said that he was an evil man – and she didn’t know who to believe.

 

It was well into the evening before the door clerk beckoned her back into the room and Evelyn could not believe that people were still arguing, though much quieter, about her. Michael was slumped in a seat by a window and Eisenhower was leaning in front of a young man with thick, curly black hair. Almost everyone in the room, even the women, had taken off their woollen jackets and hung them on the backs of chairs or simply slung them onto the table. Evelyn had loosened the fastening on her skirt and rolled her shirt sleeves up to keep the act up that she was ‘normal’ when in fact her bodily temperature made sure that she was quite cool.

“I still don’t think it is safe for her to go out into the field,” the curly haired officer sighed, “There is still the possibility that HYDRA will look for her, and their weapons are far too advanced to counter,”

“As I have already said John,” Michael rubbed his face and took a sip from the glass he held, “HYDRA was destroyed back in 1943 by SHIELD and their ‘special recruit’; there is nothing to be scared of,”

“Still – I think it’s dangerous to let a woman go out into the midst of battle and fight,” Eisenhower groaned and stalked away from the man, only just noticing Evelyn in the room and he began towards her but she side stepped him, sitting gently into the seat next to the blonde woman who touched her shield earlier.

“With all due respect sir,” she started, “Let me fight – it is all I have been doing for the last five years and I know nothing else. I was torn apart and put back together again, just for the purpose of war and I was programmed to fight for their ideals – for the enemy as you would call it,”

“My God, she doesn’t even know who her enemy is and who her ally is,” the British major threw his hands up in despair but someone shushed him,

“I am on the side of life – I fight for the freedom of man and if that means fighting for you then let me. Let me do good for a change, for once,” Evelyn toyed with a miniature plane, “Allow me this one battle and let it decide what you want me to do – either you can let me continue to fight or you leave me to live to watch your people suffer through a war you would not let me aid,”

Evelyn was shipped off to England the very next morning, adorned in green fatigues and shiny brown boots that only paratroopers were allowed to wear. 


	14. Chapter 14

_June 5_ _ th _ _1944_

She boarded the ship with everyone else, keeping her head down and her eyes trained on the ground. She snatched a bunk, the third one up from the ground on the left, in the thirty sixth column from the door. There were men all around her; big men, small men, black men, white men, American men, British men, Canadian men and Australian men. Several Canadian soldiers had befriended her, asking her kindly why she was walking into battle with them and helping her get food or get changed, keeping other soldiers away from her because one woman in a room of a thousand soldiers was dangerous.

“You’ve gotta be careful Eve,” Michael had told her before their departure, “These men aren’t like us, they are young, stupid and wild – they will try to take a bite out of you,”

The first man who had touched her was given a broken nose and black eye, and had to be dragged away by two others. That was when the three Canadian soldiers had found her, sitting on the deck next to a machine gun with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. The warmth wasn’t needed; it was the comfort Evelyn craved when she was on that ship, surrounded by hundreds of smells and sights and sounds. Nothing was louder than the ship’s engines, roaring like monstrous lions several decks below yet it felt like she was standing right next to them since everything she touched seemed to be vibrating with their low growling and churning. The smells were almost unbearable; oil and sweat slicked the walls where she slept, grease clogged the air of the canteen and outside was choked with salt and smoke. Nothing smelt like the Facility, Evelyn reminded herself bitterly; this was the smell of freedom.

“You alright lass?” it was the Scottish man who held the bunk above her, “I brought ya an orange,” she was lying in her cot with her arms covering her face, trying to sleep before the invasion in the morning but everything was too loud and the engines seemed especially restless today. She sat up and took the orange with a smile, moving out of the way so the man could shimmy up into his cot.

“What d’you think will happen tomorrow?” he asked her, his accent causing several of his words to sound slurred but Evelyn flipped on to her back,

“I do not want to think about it really,” she replied, “I think we must only take what comes to us at the time – there is no way to know what the outcome will be,”

“Go-ah-d, your Shakespeare makes me sound like a commoner!” the Scottish soldier cringed, sitting up and tipping himself over the side of his cot to look down at Evelyn,

“That’s because you are one McKinnon,” a second soldier appeared and then the two were arguing among themselves, leaving Evelyn to roll to face the metal wall and close her eyes. There was a funny feeling in the pit of her stomach and she thought it was because she was hungry so she peeled the orange and ate it in three bites, washing it down with water from her canteen.

A fight had broken out three columns down and men were rushing to break it up, or rushing to join in because the shouting only got louder. That funny feeling was still there, bubbling in the bottom of her gut and making her limbs feel shaky and quivery. It had only been a year since her escape from HYDRA and she was still experiencing emotions that she had not felt since the last Immunisation, when they wiped her and painted her white for the last time. Michael and Finley had described all manner of emotions and feelings to her so she would be prepared for when they would return but the way she was feeling now was so different – so foreign. Evelyn didn’t want to tell McKinnon or any of the Canadian soldiers because she did not want to look weak, so she curled herself into a ball and clenched her muscles in an attempt to rid herself of the nausea she felt.

 

“UP! GET UP! IT’S TIME!” alarms were sounding and people were shouting all around her, dropping from their bunks and running around desperately trying to get their equipment together, putting their helmets on and buckling up their webbing. Evelyn felt the rush and the adrenaline as she was swept into the wave of men stampeding upwards to the main deck; she felt her pack heavy on her back, laden with ammunition and medical supplies and rope and a spare parachute and a shovel and food rations; she felt the breath of the man behind her hitting her neck; she felt thousands of pairs of boots thundering above and below her; she felt the cool steel of the deck on her palms as she crouched with her temporary battalion, nestled next to her company and surrounded by her squad. Evelyn saw her lieutenant shouting out names above the chaos and she raised her arm when hers was called but no one paid her any attention because to them, she was just another soldier who was helping the good cause. Someone called for silence and a tall man wearing exactly the same uniform as everyone else stood up. His helmet had a golden emblem on the front and he had several white lines on the side of it signalling his superiority. He spoke with enthusiasm, rigour and hope, speaking to all the men on board and getting them prepared for what was to come. It was only then that Evelyn took in her surroundings for the first time; she could see thousands of other ships and boats in the roiling sea, planes in the sky, men in the water, explosions in the air, smoke mingling with the clouds, the screams and cries being drowned out by the noise of war. She couldn’t see much over the heads of all the men on the ship but she guessed that this was the final hour, the day she proved herself to War Command and to HYDRA. Evelyn was suddenly yanked from the ground by someone from her squad, a man with a mean red face and blonde moustache, and he shunted her towards the side of the deck, following the hoard of soldiers who all looked as scared as she felt.

“DOWN INTO THE BOATS NOW LADY!” the red faced man shouted into her ear and Evelyn clutched at the rope with everyone else, swinging herself off the side of the ship and hurrying downwards, towards the sea and towards a small metal boat. There was one man driving it and another readying a machine gun, both remaining calm and collected as Evelyn dropped into the boat with the rest of her company, helping each other to stay steady and upright as the wave tossed the tiny vehicle around like a puppet. The young boy next to her started to retch violently as the boat pulled away from the ship, chugging along and cutting cleanly through the water, dipping low and then surging up. Evelyn kept her head down and her hands tight around her gun as they neared the beach, she did not want to look over the side of the boat…she did not even want to think about what was out there. Someone grasped her elbow and she peered up into the startlingly pale face of her captain,

“Private, I don’t know what they told you to do today,” he leaned close to her cheek, “but I want you to get yourself up that beach, no matter what the cost,”

“I will try sir,” she replied, her voice raw with fear and scratched with smoke. He nodded and turned to the rest of the company, giving them hasty instructions before blessing them and thanking them for their service. One young man began to cry as shells shattered the air overhead, bullets hissing through the water around them and denting the metal skin of the boat. In just ten minutes, four men had vomited, one had fainted and everyone else was soaked to the skin from the waves reaching up and into the boat. Water and that morning’s breakfast sloshed around her boots, but nothing was colder than the gun held so tightly, that her knuckles were turning white. The boy next to her was reciting prayers, clutching a rosary in his thin, yellow fingers and she could hear mortars exploding, machine guns rattling out bullets, huge explosions hitting further inland and the helmsman shouting. He was screaming at them to get ready, to hold their guns up and run, run, run. They were given a ten second warning and then two men at the front began twisting the wheels that lowered the ramp.

Then the front of the boat opened with a clank and the four men in front of her were shot. Evelyn screamed out as the boy with the rosary was thrown backwards by the force of the bullet entering his head. Blood splattered her neck and cheek, and the captain screamed at her to ‘go over the side’, lifting her by the pack and pushing her out of the boat. She dropped down into the water, instantly being dragged under by the weight of her clothes and equipment. Her helmet was caught over her eyes so she could not see and she swallowed huge mouthfuls of water trying to scream out for help. Evelyn let go of her gun and clawed at her torso, trying to unfasten her pack and webbing so she could swim upwards.

When her head broke the surface, two things happened simultaneously; her helmet was knocked off by a wave dyed red with blood, and a bullet tore into her shoulder. There was no pain, just shock at the scenes unfolding beyond; a man was stood before her with only one arm, another was floating face up in the water with his neck split open, and several meters to her right, there was a second landing craft unloading however this one was engulfed in flames and the men running up the beach were spitting fire. Evelyn saw tank traps up ahead, made of metal and wood and all with men cowering beneath or behind them; she saw huge concrete bunkers perched on the cliffs all along the beach, with the enemy firing out at her comrades; she saw men trying to struggle up the beach but with no avail, mortars barring the way or bullets creating a barrier that no man could penetrate. She crawled through the water, weapon-less and bleeding, digging her hands into the sand and pushing past corpses, body parts and blood. There were tears flowing down her cheeks as she exited the water, throwing herself next to three dead soldiers as bullets kicked up the sand around her. There were hundreds of men in differing states of death littering the beach and her breath caught in her throat when she spotted the Scottish man who had given her an orange not six hours ago; his torso was gaping and he only had one leg.

A bullet raced past her right side and she lurched out of its path, only for a second to lodge in her left thigh. Again, Evelyn was not fazed by the pain and she clutched at the wound, stopping the bleeding and curling up against the barricade of dead men.

Someone dragged her off the ground and threw her behind an iron tank trap, on to another man who she realised a second later was dead. Her captain leaned close to her face but she had forgotten his name – she never forgot people’s names, especially her superiors. He was shouting at her and she couldn’t hear him, she couldn’t hear anything. There was a ringing in her ears that drowned out the guns, the explosions, the waves and the cries. She rubbed her ears and her hands came back bloody, causing the captain to grab her wrists and shake her hard,

“PRIVATE!” he was shouting at her with hysteria, “PRIVATE YOU NEED TO GET UP NOW!”

Evelyn obeyed with quivering lips and wiped her hands on her front, crawling to her knees and rising.

She was the only one stood upright amongst the thousands of other men on the beach, walking slowly forwards. Evelyn saw a bullet sail past her head in slow motion, raising her palms in response and blocking any other gunfire that was aimed her way. People were shouting at her, screaming for her to get down, to save herself but she flattened her palms and marvelled at how the bullets simply ricocheted off her shield. It motivated her; it sparked a new glint of determination into her eyes and she broke into a sprint, bringing her fists into an X shape in front of her face. Every German on the beach charged his fire power on her. Hundreds of bullets pushed against her shield, causing her to clench her teeth together and fall to one knee. She heard a mortar whistling through the air towards her and she moved, arching backwards so the shells fell on to the shield, exploding, to anyone else watching, in burst of blue light. She crouched lower, turning her shoulder into the torrent of gunfire, watching as her allies wound their way up the beach. Many were stopped by bullets tearing apart their heads or mortars blowing craters in the sand, sending legs and arms in all directions. She could hear men crying, screaming, praying, shells hitting the ground, bullets striking skin and metal. Evelyn focused her gaze forwards with dark eyes and bared teeth. She tensed, let out a shout and punched forwards, the blue energy expanding out from her body and careening towards the battery in front of her. In a matter of seconds, the concrete was crumbling and the cliff exploded.

Evelyn fell on to all fours, heaving and panting with the effort and as she turned her head, she saw soldiers charging up the beach with wild and enthusiastic cries, thrusting their weapons into the air and cheering her on. Several came to her side, kneeling down and giving her covering fire while a medic saw to the bloody wound on her shoulder, patting her harshly on the back and telling her to keep going. Someone threw her a rifle and Evelyn caught it, looking up into the face of her Captain and grinning at him. His hand movements signalled for her and the others to move forward, to take cover beneath the dunes while air support took out the defence trenches beyond. The whole time they were running, Captain Miller had his fist scrunched into the back of her uniform, as if scared she would collapse or run away but Evelyn was at the front, holding her force field up against the new barrage of machine gunfire. Instead of waiting beneath the sand dunes and crumbling cliff, the men grabbed hold of her and hoisted her small frame up into the air, knowing that wherever she landed, there would be chaos.

The Germans sat waiting in the trench as no idea what hit them. One minute, they were listening to the sounds of battle and preparing to be rallied into action, and the next - a tiny white haired woman vaulted over the end of the trench and fired her gun at them. It was easy to advance like this, weaving in and down narrow corridors made of dirt and sand, bursting round corners and shooting anything that moved. Enemy soldiers were screaming at her and at each other,to ‘hold her back’ and to ‘stop her from advancing’. Evelyn leapt out of a trench and ran over the tops, letting her force fields roll off her like waves, having the same effect as the jets that swooped down on the beach. Wet sediment blasted at her from all sides but it was exhilarating, hearing her comrades emerge from the beach behind her, seeing bodies fall when she passed them, smelling smoke and fire and salt and death. A grenade suddenly flew at her, but Evelyn simply caught it and chucked it back at its source, ducking away from the explosion. Snatching up a rifle, she retreated back to the darkness of the trenches and changed her tactics to ones she knew better than anyone; sneaking around corners quieter than a shadow, striking when they saw the whites of her eyes, muffling their screams by slashing their throats. It was a natural order she fell into, destroying machine guns with her bare hands and picking up mortars to throw where she could not see. She suddenly rounded a corner and ran into a number of soldiers she did not recognise, dropping her aim but not taking her finger off the trigger,

“You did good private,” Evelyn recognised the voice, it was the major who gave them words of wisdom before sending them off the boat, “You did us a real good job,” the three other soldiers relaxed and shouldered their rifles, sending her grateful smiles. The major took off his helmet and wiped his forehead of sweat before clasping Evelyn on the shoulder,

“I was following orders sir,” she saluted but her hand was shaky and pale as a corpse, “The men needed me, I could not bare to see any more of them die,”

It had taken half a day for the allies to gain a few inches on Omaha beach, but once Evelyn had landed, she gave them a sure-fire victory in an hour.As she walked through groups of celebrating soldiers, many looked up at her in wonder and awe, standing up to congratulate and thank her for helping them,

“If it wasn’t for you private, we would have lost the invasion,” Captain Miller found her clearing the communication trenches far behind the beaches, shooting those who dared to challenge her and cornering those who waved white hanker chiefs. He wasn’t as surprised as some people with her power, stating that everyone has secrets but her’s was just a lot bigger and much more helpful,

“What is your secret sir?” she asked, dismantling a Nazi pistol and cleaning it with her trousers,

“Me?” he sounded tired, “I like to knit,”

She began to laugh gaily, causing the groups around her to smile and close their eyes at the sound as it was a welcome change from the explosions and bullets and screams of dying men.


	15. Chapter 15

“You’re being moved on Evelyn,” General Montgomery sat in a chair, reviewing battlefield reports and signing off inventories, “There is nothing else for you to do here, the invasion was a success and now it is a matter of time before we move into Berlin,”

Evelyn was surprised to hear that Eisenhower was pleased with her work, with her fighting for him. She thought that he would simply ask her to return to America and work for the door clerk, but apparently he had other plans for her,

“May I ask where to sir?” she was stood to attention even though Montgomery had asked her to relax and sit down,

“Well, you are going to join the 2nd armoured division for a while and they will drop you off with the 101st Airborne,” he explained without looking up at her, “There, you will stay under the command of Colonel Sink,”

She recognised the name and visualised an older man with a thin grey moustache and wide shoulders. He had been in the room on the 1st of May when Michael and General Eisenhower had put forward their idea to use her to win the war. He had sat towards the back with a dark skinned, young man, both taking short sips from tumblers filled with cool whiskey. General Montgomery told her to gather whatever she needed and to be ready to leave in two minutes. She had nothing; no rations, no pack, no webbing, no first aid kit, no ammunition and no gun. If she was to be a sniper, then she would need a gun,

“Weapons; where are the captured weapons?” Evelyn had corned her captain, “I need a gun to shoot,” he laughed and pointed her towards the trenches that she had just cleared,

“There’s bound to be something there kid,” he only saw a blur as she sprinted down a ladder and zig-zagged through the mud and sand, her eyes rapidly searching for a rifle to use. It took her twenty six seconds to locate some form of weapon; a G43 with a scope mounted on it, along with a small knapsack filled with cartridges for the gun. It was sandy and a little scorched but it felt familiar in her hands, heavy and cold from disuse, and when she held it up to set the bearings, she realised that she had held that type of gun before. It had been the favoured model of rifle used during her training with HYDRA because it was easily modified to suite her. Images of a dull black gun entered her mind, slung heavily over her shoulder as she crouched low in the shadows down an empty alley. It was raining but she didn’t feel the cold, only the anticipation of a successful kill. Lightning illuminated her path and the memory switched to her sitting in an empty room, poised with the gun and clenching the trigger. A man walked across the street with a wide umbrella, dancing over puddles – then there was a crack and he fell into a lamppost, bleeding from the neck.

Evelyn realised that it was raining for real and blinked up at the sky, watching grey clouds fight against each other.

The 2nd armoured division were waiting for Evelyn and the captain of one of the Sherman tanks allowed her to sit on the front of it, granted that she moved out of the way if the gun needed to be used. She pulled herself next to it and asked the driver what his name was out of politeness but neither of them could talk over the sound of the tank’s engine. It was louder than the ship’s roaring engines on the way over to Normandy so she was content to just sit back and admire the war torn landscapes that they were passing through.

 

It took 48 hours to get to the town of Saint Mere Du Mont, where the 101st airborne had been stationed the previous day. It had rained the entire night and even then, Evelyn still had the smell of the sea and blood staining her skin. The tanks churned up the gravel road and by the time they entered the small farm lot which served as regiment HQ, she had more mud on her than clothing. She was pointed in the direction of Colonel Sink who was overseeing her integration with the Airborne, the bottom floor of a huge stone barn. He was sat behind a scrubbed oak table that was adorned with maps and files, and surrounding him were intelligence officers bickering about translations or concentrating on deciphering code coming through the small radios stationed around the room. Evelyn strode up to the Colonel, saluted and stated that she was there to aid E Company and fight the war. There was an uncomfortable silence and then the men around her laughed boisterously at the declaration. Until an intelligence officer brought forward a letter stapled to a brown file,

“It’s true sir, General Eisenhower sent through a few hours ago – you looked over it yourself,” the officer pointed out and Colonel Sink turned slightly pink, taking the file and reading it quickly, flicking his eyes between the pictures he was holding to the sand, mud and blood splattered woman standing before him.

There was a pause before he looked at her, this time with a sincere look about his war hardened face,

“What were the beaches like?” Sink sounded sad and his eyes gave Evelyn permission to speak,

“A lot of good men fell sir,” she told him quietly, “If I had not been assigned to Omaha, then many more may have been killed,” Sink came around the front of the table and rubbed his hands on his thighs,

“Your company is on the move at the moment, you should catch them by tomorrow morning,” his tone changed and he was her commander again, telling her what to do and where to do it, “You go and kill me some goddamned Nazis, Private!”

 

 

Evelyn commanded the tanks forward, directing them to where the conflict was, where they were needed the most. She strained to hear gun fire and the shouts of battle, but the engines around her were overpowering. They sped down small lanes and through fields, along high hedge rows and over raised boundaries between farm lands. Evelyn finally heard an explosion paired with shouting in English up ahead and she saw to her horror, that entire companies were running away across a field, away from a thinning hedge row filled with American soldiers. Her eyes sought out the enemy and knew they had the advantage, being at the top of a slight hill with just as many tanks she had.

Evelyn crouched down to talk to the driver of the first tank, 

“Three tanks, all heading North towards our lines,” her words were hurried, “Go at an 045 degree bearing,” her hands signalled similar commands to the second tank, telling to bear 060 degrees instead. Evelyn jumped down from the machine and began to run ahead, armed only with the stolen German rifle. All she could hear was her own breath, shattering through her ear drums at the same tempo of her heart, the rhythm matching her strides. She ran straight towards the most intense fire, doing what she did back on the beaches, holding her forearms up and drawing the attention towards her instead of the struggling soldiers and the oncoming tanks. Nothing penetrated her shield, not even the three rounds fired at her from the German Panzers, not even the grenades thrown hastily to her feet and into the air above her head.

She was situated in the middle of the field when the first German tank was blitzed and when the second was blown to pieces, she dropped her shields and began ruthlessly firing bullets at the fleeing German men. Evelyn dropped to one knee as she reloaded, a mortar exploding two feet to her right, spraying her with dirt, bracken and chunks of grass. The Sherman’s focused their fire power on the retreating vehicles, leaving the enemy to Evelyn and the other Americans.

She was furious at the sheer number of Germans still remaining back and firing at her, daring to aim for her head and her heart. There was a moment; she saw the bullet leave the rifle in slow motion, cutting through the air and piercing through her right shoulder, blood spraying from the wound and dying her uniform. The pain only fuelled her on, throwing her gun to the side and standing up with a menacing snarl on her face. Her skin began to ripple and swirl, her hands screwing into tight fists and with a shriek, she threw herself forwards. From her tiny body, the Americans saw an azure hazy wave erupt and barrel towards the German lines. In a matter of seconds, any man caught in the wave’s path turned to dust and the foliage burst into flames.

People began to cheer, for her and for the tanks that came to their aid, running forward to embrace and congratulate her.

“You sure are strong little missy!”

“Where’d you learn to do that!”

“That’s some weird shit right there man,”

“But we won though!”

Evelyn didn’t know what to do, she was surrounded by huge men wearing oil on their faces and the same uniform as her.

“Where are you stationed Private?” a lieutenant stalked through the crowd but he was as small as she was, with bright blonde curly hair and teeth that stuck out beyond his bottom lip, “Where did you come from?”

“My company fell on the beaches,” she explained, “I was told to join up with E Company of the 101st?” a few men recoiled at her accent and admittance of coming from the Normandy beaches,

“On whose orders?” the little man demanded,

“On Eisenhower’s orders, Lieutenant Welsch,” Colonel Sink fought his way through the destroyed hedge row and excited men, “And on mine; she is a powerful asset son, you should be glad she’s fighting for us and not the Germans,” he turned proudly to Evelyn, “Private, you did well today – thank you,” a chorus went up agreeing with him and someone clapped her on the back, “Report to Captain Winters, when you’re not up at the front lines, you’re gonna be a sniper,”

“Yes sir,” she saluted bravely and then smiled at Colonel Sink, taking his outstretched hand and shaking it confidently,

“Carry on,” he waved about his head and the crowd dispersed immediately with several of the men offering to escort Evelyn to the captain, but it was Lieutenant Welsch who took her by the elbow and pulled her along. They were silent as they passed groups of medics tending to the wounded or covering the dead, but whether bleeding or not, every man they passed shouted their greetings and their thanks for her help,

“You really did save us today doll,” Welsch commented, his angered demeanour had dropped quite rapidly to Evelyn’s relief, “I mean, there are rumours about what you did on Oma-,”

“I could not let any more men die Lieutenant,” she interrupted, “I apologise – but the sea was red with the blood of the fallen,”

They had stopped walking suddenly,

“Now that was very poetic Private Phillips,” it was the intelligence officer who had been in Colonel Sink’s office and had presented her file, “But I’m afraid you’re just buttering it up because my buddy was on Sword and he said that there were _guts_ in the sea too,”

“Well yes – but I did not want to disrespect -,” Evelyn faltered as a huge red haired man climbed out of a foxhole and stood next to the intelligence officer. He was at least a foot taller than her; long limbed, wide shouldered with thin lips and scrutinising blue eyes; covered in freckles and dirt from the battle,

“Private,” the man said and Evelyn saluted him, with scarlet cheeks and a throbbing chest,

“Captain,” she reiterated obediently, “I was told to report to you, I was supposed to join E Company but they wanted me on the beaches and I was a little delayed,”

“I understand Private,” his voice was low and calm, reassuring her but she could not bring herself to look at him again, “Do you have a weapon?”

“Pretty sure she is a weapon Dick,” the intelligence officer mumbled with a grin and ‘Dick’ sent him a glare while Evelyn shrugged her shoulders, grinning also,

“I do have a weapon,” she held up her rifle and then pulled out the pistol she had taken from the beaches, “Captain Miller – I think -let me keep it,” Evelyn was visibly upset that she couldn’t remember her old captain’s name and Welsch put a hand on her shoulder,

“Better not let Hoobler see that, he’ll go nuts,” he tried to joke and she made the effort to smile in reply, “C’mon, I’ll put you in 1st platoon with me huh?”

Captain ‘Dick’ Winters nodded and watched the two leave,

“She’s a good looking broad yeah?” the intelligence officer, named Lewis Nixon, said slyly and Winters snapped at him,

“She is a soldier just like the rest of us Nix, don’t you dare do anything,” he warned and Lewis Nixon held up his hands in surrender,

“There’s nothing wrong with admiring for afar,” Lewis elbowed his friend in the ribs, “I mean you were, so why can’t anyone else,” Winters didn’t answer, instead turning bright pink and stalking away with Lewis howling with laughter following behind.

 

 

_June 12_ _ th _ _, 1944_

Evelyn stayed with E Company for the entire twenty four days of their time on Normandy. She had recounted her stories of Omaha beach several hundred times to all the men in her battalion, sparing no detail and causing a few to go quiet and turn worryingly pale; she helped secure several small towns with her company, clearing out houses and staying in attic rooms to make sure no rogue sniper would catch them out; she spoke to the natives gently, answering their thanks and praises, translating what Captain Winters wanted and learning to hold her blush beneath his gaze. A lot of the men in E Company were very handsome and a lot of them flirted with her, causing her cheeks to colour prettily and her heart to thud in her chest. It was during the first couple of days that she managed to control her reactions and make friends, shutting down their teasing comments and taking down lone snipers that they had not seen. Evelyn gained the respect and loyalty of all the men in the company, all of them overlooking her gender and trusting her to protect and fight for them. She grew close to Lewis Nixon, Richard Winters and Harry Welsch, but also a rough man named Bill Guarnere and a darker skinned Texan called Joseph Toye. The one of the mortar squad in her company was made up of Donald Malarkey, ‘Skip Muck’ and a young man named Alex Penkala; there was a second sniper called Darrell Powers but he assured Evelyn that he was no way as good as she was; and then there was the rest of the battalion. By the end of their stay in Normandy, she knew all their names and their stories, their wishes for the future and their ‘dames back home’.

She was with Eugene Roe as they trudged through the thick undergrowth of Normandy, kicking up ivy and ferns, and talking about home,

“You should try my ma’s gumbo – it’s heaven,” Roe closed his eyes and took a big breath as if trying to smell the dish all the way across the sea, “She would put shrimp and crayfish and –,”

There was a single shot, echoing through the trees and a man fell to the ground at the front of the group. Evelyn did not have to think twice, pushing through the men and through the undergrowth to where the victim was. She tried not to think about the crimson blood pouring out of poor Albert Blithe’s neck as she barrelled behind a thick oak tree. There was an old, ruined barn house up ahead and she waited for Staff Sergeant John Martin to direct her to where the German sniper was.

 _Top floor, to the right and through the rafters_.

It was an easy shot from where she was stood, and she didn’t have to wait very long before the marksman appeared where John Martin had indicated. Evelyn fired two shots, one through his forearm so he would fall to the right, and another through his back into his heart.

“Clear,” she called out after scanning the rest of the floor, and several men ran forwards to search the entire barn to make sure nothing else would catch them by surprise. She moved from behind the tree and started back to where Lewis Nixon and Richard Winters were stood, together with Buck Compton and Harry Welsch,

“We’re going back to England,” Winters told her and she relaxed her shoulders, “A camp north of Omaha beach with hot food and showers,” Evelyn sucked in a breath at the mention of the landing beaches and she nodded, “There’s no need to worry Private, the beaches are safe now,” he assured her and she turned away, watching as Eugene Roe and John Martin dressed Albert Blithe’s wounds,

“I know,” Evelyn said gravely, “I cleared them,”


	16. Chapter 16

It was strange being back on Omaha, strange because it was now just a beach and not a battlefield or graveyard. Evelyn asked where they buried the soldiers but no one would answer, or no one heard her. She stood on the beach during meal time, alone when everyone else was sat in the warm barn house eating bread and potatoes with music and entertainment. The wind tore her hair out of its braid and snapped at her clothes, sending shivers down her spine. Evelyn was not cold, just remembering. She dared not close her eyes because the images would return, images of men running and dying and bleeding and crying, images of herself charging up the beach and destroying everything in her path without a second thought. Those were her orders, spoken by Captain Miller and General Eisenhower,

“ _You get up that beach, you fire your gun and you defend these men_ ,”

She wasn’t used to acting for others; it was always selfishness that fuelled her missions and training. HYDRA never sent her away with a partner or a shadow, she was always alone and she only ever acted for herself which meant that Evelyn did everything in her power to survive, not caring for anyone else. On the beach it was different because she had orders to protect and fight for someone other than herself, and to her surprise; it had been very easy to complete. Seeing those men struggling up the beach, most only getting a few inches forwards before being forced back by gunfire fuelled her to complete the mission – to fight for the good of mankind.

 

Evelyn’s return to the barn seemed to be cause for celebration because at least twenty men charged at her; shaking her shoulder, clapping her back, waving their hands in front of her face, offering her beer and food, trying to entice her to sit with any one of them. It was Captain Winters who saved her, striding through the group and ordering them to sit down or leave immediately. Several men scowled and grumbled out curses but they all eventually sidled away, sliding on to benches and never taking their eyes off her,

“Thank you sir,” she tried to smile but he was already walking away from her, shoulders hunched and hands clasped behind his back,

“Lewis wants to speak to you,” Evelyn heard him mutter and she scurried after him like a child following an angry parent, “He wants to discuss what to do with you once we get back to England,”

“Oh,” Richard sat on the other side of the table and continued eating his food, scowling into his cup of water,

“Don’t worry, he’s always like that,” Lewis Nixon was warmth personified, with a smile so bright that Evelyn couldn’t help but return it, “Can’t take a goddamned joke that man,” he swung his leg over the bench to fully face her, taking in her windswept hair and raw pink cheeks, “Where’ve you been?” she noticed that he leant forward and his eyes did not leave her face when he spoke,

“I went to see the beaches again,” she explained and Lewis nodded in understanding, “Captain Winters said you wanted a word?” he searched her face for a moment before speaking,

“I’ve had call that General Taylor wants to meet you, and congratulate you for what you did back on Omaha,” his voice was low but still welcoming, the spark in his eyes never diminishing, “Your friend Michael will be there too, but rumour has it that there’s a special job for you,”

“Oh,” she looked down at her hands which were clasped in her lap,

“Oh?” Lewis was shocked, “You’re going to meet the top boss, get a medal and go on a secret mission – and you have to say is ‘oh’?”

“I was sent on a lot of missions where I was trained,” Evelyn explained, “I met a lot of ‘top bosses’,”

“Did you get any medals?” he asked her quietly but she simply shook her head,

“Only punishment,”

 

 

_September 13th, 1944._

England was a familiar place, so much so that Evelyn immediately began to weep when she disembarked the ship that brought her back from Normandy. One of the nurses had to lead her away from the overwhelming affections of her men, tugging a blanket around her shoulders and handing her a steaming mug of tea,

“I have not been here for so many years,” she explained wearily to the nurse, “I do not even remember my home or my family any more,”

“You may not have a home,” the nurse had the same coloured eyes as Lewis Nixon, a warm hazel that softened even the hardest man, “But you have a family,” she pointed through the window at several men who were standing outside the medical station, smoking cigarettes and joking around with one another. She realised that they were men from her company; they were her friends and she couldn’t help but smile a little at their kind actions.

Buck Compton was among the men waiting outside for her, and he slung his arm over her shoulders as they waltzed through the narrow English streets,

“We’re taking you to the pub,” he announced joyfully and the group hollered in reply,

“I have never been to a pub,” Evelyn admitted shyly, eyeing the glowing building up ahead. It was small with a thatched roof, but there was music pouring out of the open windows and laughter spilling through the door; men and women alike were scattered about in the street outside, smoking and dancing together, singing and drinking to the success of D-day, to the victory of the allies and to the diminishment of the Nazis. It was warm inside the pub, mostly from the sheer number of people inside, some of whom cheered when they spotted Evelyn,

“Here, Phillips!” Buck passed her a tankard full of beer with froth flowing down the sides, “We have a lot to celebrate!” she was sat on a wooden stool in front of the bar and spun around to face the rest of the pub. Her eyes immediately darted around, seeking out all the exits and possible escape routes, and weapons too – she looked for anything she could use to defend herself in the event of an attack,

“Drink your beer kid,” Lewis slid in next to her, nursing his own glass of whiskey, “There’s nothing to worry about here,” he had seen the way her face grew pale beneath the gazes of all the men around her, the way her eyes flitted about nervously, the way her fingers clutched the glass like it was her life source, “Go on,” he urged and Evelyn nodded, knocking back half the pint in one gulp. Lewis stared at her when she took another swig, finishing the alcohol and placing it gently on the bar top, only to be instantly handed a tumbler of whiskey,

“It is nice in here,” she was unaffected by the beer, “Happy – I have not seen happiness like this in a long time,” her eyes screwed shut at the taste of the amber liquid,

“There’s a lot to be happy about,” Lewis agreed with her, observing the scenes himself; there were nurses frolicking around the soldiers, British and American alike, and natives mingling with the officers like they were all long lost family. He did not observe the group of men approaching him, with their eyes all set on Evelyn,

“Heard what you did on the beaches,” an olive skinned man commented and she turned to face him, bringing her defences up immediately, “That was pretty heroic,”

“Thank you,” Evelyn did not know what to make of the situation, she had not seen these paratroopers before and they all smelt strongly of alcohol and smoke, with blazing eyes and swollen cheeks,

“From what I heard – I didn’t think you were a dame,” the comment blew over her head but she felt Lewis bristle next to her, “All my girls are at home, waiting for me – maybe you should too,”

“What? Go home?” she asked confusedly, “England is my home,” the olive skinned man grumbled at her answer,

“Nah – I meant you shouldn’t be here,” he gestured to her uniform, “wearing greens like the rest o’ us, you’re no’ needed here,”

“But I helped on the beaches,” Evelyn countered, a little upset at his accusation, “I saved lives, they needed me there; didn’t they?” Lewis cleared his throat,

“Dames aren’t supposed to do the dirty work,” the man continued angrily,

“She’s gonna do your dirty work in a bit pal,” Lewis threatened and a huge man stepped forward with a snarl,

“You should never have come here,” he spoke with venom on his tongue, “They should never have let a girl join the army – you’re just gonna slag around,”

“No I am not,” Evelyn replied icily and the men laughed,

“Course you are, someone will get you at some point,” the olive skinned man accused, “And you’ll just open your legs like a bitch in heat – I know you will,”

“Stop it,” their words were bringing up memories of masked guards forcing themselves on her, tearing into her and leaving her bleeding and scarred, “Stop it,” Lewis shouted at the men, threatening to court martial them for harassment, but they did not listen to him; throwing insults and jibes at Evelyn until she slid off the stool,

“I am going to go,” she announced quietly, “I think I need to go,” Lewis set his glass down and took her by the elbow, leading her away from the group of men. They continued to shout and hiss at her, whistling at her like she was a dog and someone made to grab at her breasts.

Lewis span around just as Evelyn shrieked and reared her arm back, slamming her fist into the huge man’s chest. The strength of the blow threw him off his feet and he sailed backwards before crashing into a table full of men from her Company. The wood crumbled and splintered beneath him, glasses shattered to the ground, nurses screamed and the entire pub went silent. Evelyn was stood by the door with narrowed eyes,

“I asked for you to stop,” she told the group of men and walked out of the building with Lewis scuttling along after her.

The house she returned to was dark and almost silent, save for the gentle breathing of the host family. Evelyn had been put up with a gentle elderly couple with white hair and equally kind faces, and although she had only met them once, she decided that they were decent enough. The wife had laid out a plate of dry biscuits on the kitchen table with a handwritten note stating that Evelyn could help herself, and there was a small bottle of slough gin with a ribbon tied around the cork. She smiled a little and took a few of the biscuits before retreating to her room on the top floor. It had a sloping ceiling and a pretty latticed window that looked out on the shadowy fields beyond the house, the mattress was on the floor but it had soft cotton sheets and a feather filled pillow that Evelyn sunk down into once she had removed her clothing. She did not even bother to clean her face or brush her teeth before she got under the covers, settling down and nibbling on one of the biscuits. It was a cool evening and couldn’t help but smile as she drifted off to sleep, not worrying about the memories of the beaches flooding beneath her eyelids, not listening to the gun shots and screams of far off men that filled her ears; she was comforted and happy, for the first time in several months.

 

 

It took five weeks for the invite to come through and by then, Evelyn had been fully integrated into Easy Company and had been given a helmet with a white ace painted on the side to signify her involvement with the battalion. She trained just like any other man, participating in squad manoeuvres, target practise, marches and tactical lectures given by officers from different companies. Colonel Sink had told her not to use her shields unless absolutely necessary because he did not want the enemy knowing that they had a mutant woman,

“I reckon you’re gonna win us the war missy,” he had told her over a cup of coffee one morning before training. He and the other superiors were pleased with how she was getting along with the men; engaging in group exercises with vigour and enthusiasm, joking around with individuals and joining them for nights at the pub or in the dance hall. The subtly ignored every time someone brought up a case of fraternising or flirting against her, overturning the demand for a court martial and making sure Evelyn did not find out about the number of men who despised her.

She knew who did not want her around; they had said it to her face on several occasions and then spat insults about her. After the incident on the first night in England, Lewis had made sure someone was always with her when they had free time or had to participate in regiment exercises in order to deter any man from attacking her like they had in the pub all those weeks ago.

Today it was Captain Winters himself, escorting her to the regimental HQ at the request of Colonel Sink,

“Do you have any idea what it is for sir?” she asked him, struggling to keep up with his long strides,

“No actually,” he commented airily, “I was just told to bring you to his office but Lewis reckons it’s for what you did back in Normandy,”

Evelyn was surprised, “I did not think I would need recognition for following orders,” they entered a grand country mansion that had men in brown and green uniforms milling around on the grass outside. Inside were paintings of beautiful women and elegantly dressed men, with mirrors and velvet wallpaper covering the interior; there was a wide flight of stairs opposite the entrance hall and Richard guided her up them, watching her admire the rooms and the people of the house with a tight smile on his face. They reached the landing and a young woman greeted them, gesturing for them to follow her through a huge dark oak door and into a well-lit study,

“Ah, Private Phillips,” General Eisenhower refrained from embracing her, instead stepping forward and squeezing her shoulder. Colonel Sink was leaning on his desk holding a glass of whiskey, Major Strayer and Major Horton were stood by a window with their arms folded, and Michael Fitz was sat in a leather chair smoking. All of them had beaming grins on their face when Evelyn looked around in confusion, “It’s good to see you again,”

“You too, sir,” she saluted him but the puzzled expression on her face did not leave,

“That will be all Captain,” Eisenhower dismissed Richard with a quirk of his mouth and Evelyn watched him go, catching his eyes as the door closed behind him. He looked nervous, nervous for her and Evelyn looked down at her feet,

“You’re looking good kid,” Michael commented after a few moments’ silence and Eisenhower nodded in agreement,

“Yes, I have to admit you are looking radiant,” Evelyn blushed deeply and murmured a thank you, “But we’re not here to discuss your appearance -,”

“What you did in Normandy was heroic,” Major Horton interrupted suddenly, “It’s like nothing anyone’s ever seen before!” he was a stout man with a smooth face and bushy eyebrows, and a mouth that was constantly pulled up in a smirk,

“He’s right,” Sink drawled, “The invasion on the beaches was a goddamned success thanks to you, and Carentan would have taken longer to liberate if you hadn’t’ve been there to help,”

“We want to commemorate your work Private,” Eisenhower walked over to a small box sat on top of a wooden filing cabinet, “It’ll go in your files and we’ll officially record it back in the states -,” he handed her the box and Evelyn brushed her fingers over the velvet covering, opening it slowly with shaking hands. Inside the box sat a handsome gold medal in the shape of a five pointed star with a green wreath circling it, an eagle was fixed to the top point with a small engraving that stated ‘valour’ and inside the star was the face of a woman wearing a helmet. The medal was attached to a light blue ribbon that had 13 silver stars stitched along it,

“Usually the President would give it to you in an official ceremony,” Michael appeared at her side, “but there were – restrictions,” Evelyn couldn’t speak, she touched the medal and shivered,

“We don’t want you out of action, selling war bonds like the other men who have received this honour,” Eisenhower was watching her carefully, smiling gently when she lifted the medal out of the box, “The offices also don’t want this publicised,”

“Why?” her voice was weak and trembling,

“Because we don’t want the enemy knowing that we have a distinguished soldier among our ranks,” Michael scoffed at Eisenhower’s words and folded his arms,

“No – we don’t want HYDRA knowing we have you and that you are doing well with us,” Evelyn’s head snapped up when she heard the name,

“I thought you had destroyed what was left of them?” she hissed and Michael shrugged,

“I don’t know that yet,” he admitted, “They’ve gone into hiding, infiltrated the German and Soviet army,”

“But you are dealing with this threat though Mr Fitz?” Major Strayer stepped away from the window,

“Of course, SHIELD is flushing out what is left – it will take time,” Michael assured everyone in the room and Evelyn nodded, putting the medal back in its case and shutting the lid,

“Thank you sirs,” she saluted the men, “I have never received an award for my actions before,” Michael frowned deeply and sighed, turning away and letting her superiors change the subject,

“We’ve got another drop soon,” Colonel Sink told her, “Your gonna liberate Nazi occupied Holland and secure the bridges for the British – it’ll be a couple days’ hard fighting but it’s gonna be the biggest paratroopers’ drop ever,”

“We’d rather you not tell anyone before the officer’s brief you,” Major Horton pointed out, “We want you to learn Dutch so you can communicate with the natives, how long should that take?”

Evelyn thought back to when she was forced to learn German, Polish and Russian in HYDRA; she was never asked how long it would take, just told that she would complete each language in one week or she would be punished. She looked around the room,

“It should not take too long sir,” her words were confident, “I think about five or six day’s maybe,” Sink cleared his throat and puffed out his chest,

“Well, that’s all then Private,” he saluted her, “I’ve had material send over to your accommodation,”

Evelyn went to return the salute but General Eisenhower stopped her,

“You don’t need to do that Evelyn,” he stepped away and clicked his heels together, “We thank you for what you did to help our men,” the entire room raised their palms at the same time, even Michael and then they dipped their heads at her, “Thank you,” Eisenhower gave her a smile and gestured for her to leave, politely dismissing her with a wink. Michael led her out of the room and gave her elbow a squeeze,

“I’ve gotta go back to London now,” the news was expected and Evelyn nodded, “I don’t know when I’ll see you but I want you to promise me one thing Eve,”

“What?”

“Don’t get yourself killed alright?” Evelyn threw herself at Michael, wrapping her arms around his torso and burying her head into his chest. He smelt of cigarettes and car oil, his suit was rough against her cheek and a laugh bubbled in his throat,

“Okay, okay, kid,” Michael stroked the top of her head and untangled himself from her arms, “I’ll send through any news, now get outta here!” she grinned and began her descent down the stair case, looking back at him every few steps and smiling. He waved at her one last time before she left through the main doors, emerging on the gravel drive and stopping on the front lawn with a deep breath. The medal case was still in her hands and she opened it again, watching the afternoon sun reflect off the gold,

“Evelyn!” her head whipped around at her name and she spotted Lewis Nixon jogging towards her, waving enthusiastically, “What’s in the box? What was the meeting about? Are you going on a secret mission to Berlin?”

“Honestly Nix, give her a chance to speak!” Richard Winters sidled up behind his friend and glanced down at the box Evelyn held,

“It was not the official ceremony, they did not want me exposed to the enemy,” she explained, turning the box around so the men could see the medal,

“Holy shit, you got the Medal of Honour?” Lewis was as excited as a child on Christmas day, quivering all over as he took the medal from the case and examined it, “This is amazing!”

“You’re not going to be leaving are you?” Richard’s question startled her a little and she shook her head,

“They want me fighting, not selling bonds,” his shoulders relaxed at her answer and his cheeks coloured slightly,

“It’s just the men – erm – they would miss you and – you’re a good soldier Private, we’d hate to see you go,” he folded his hands behind his back and looked at his feet,

“I am not going anywhere sir,” Evelyn assured both men, plucking the medal from Lewis and replacing it, “I am tied to this company now, I will do anything to protect my brothers,”

 


	17. Chapter 17

Operation Market Garden demanded her input, because none of the officers knew how to pronounce the names of towns and because she had to learn how to jump from a plane with a parachute attached to her back. It was a quick couple of lessons with a long nosed officer who shouted at her every chance he got, commanding that she folded and refolded her parachute with her eyes closed, telling her to do twenty press ups when she failed to bend her knees when jumping from the model aircraft door eight feet in the air, and pinching her wrists as she dangled from chords suspended from huge metal frames. He was a hard instructor, putting her through rigorous drills until she was as good as any paratrooper in her battalion, launching herself from the planes without the jump master having to push her out. She inspired the other recruits who were learning with her, motivating them to keep up with the pace she was advancing at, practising with her during the nights and learning Dutch with her during meal times. It was the longest she had ever been away from her company doing exercises but almost every weekend, several of her friends came to visit, bringing shortbread and apricot loaves from her host family. They would recount their week, telling her all about the days digging foxholes and herding cows back into their fields, drawing tactical manoeuvres in the dirt to help her keep up to speed with the rest of the battalion. Some of the nurses visited her too, bringing her tips on how to tie her hair out of her face now it was getting long enough to. They sat with her on the warm evenings when she wasn’t off on marches, eating chocolate, drinking sparkling wine and smoking cigarettes, chatting about their lives in the military and about their lives at home. Evelyn taught them German and self-defence moves, and they taught her basic first aid so she would be able to help a fallen comrade. England was starting to feel like home.

Her parachute training took just over six weeks and when Evelyn returned to her battalion with a new medal pinned to her uniform, she was instantly invited out to celebrate her ‘wings’. She was bought one drink after another and played darts all through the night, pretending to miss the bullseye so George Luz didn’t get upset. Then Richard Winters came forward to congratulate her, then Major Strayer who hinted that she had another medal to add to her collection, and then Major Horton who bought her a bottle of fine wine from Australia as a present. Her night was spent dancing with the nurses and then allowed Lewis Nixon to sweep her off her feet, twirling her around the floor and watching her laugh like a father looks at his daughter. She was wearing her ‘class A’s’ which consisted of a tight, knee length skirt and a blazer clinched in at the waist with a bronze belt, fastened a little tighter than deemed appropriate. Evelyn had never worn anything like it in her life, everything Michael had her wear in America had been light and floating in soft peaches and delicate blues, and all she remembered from HYDRA was black clothing that enabled her to move in an all manner of ways and had special holders to conceal her guns and knives. Her figure attracted unwanted male attention but since Lewis had ordered her to have an escort every time she went out on the weekends or alone, several of her friends had seen the perpetrators off with puffed out chests and balled fists. Evelyn didn’t mind her friends defending her, it felt nice to be worried about because they wanted her to stay with them, to stay alive; in HYDRA, it was only her progress and missions that were worried about. But here, someone would tell a joke and look to her for a reaction, a man would buy her a drink and watch her to see if she liked it, Lewis had asked her to dance and then made sure she liked the song and was comfortable before he brought her into his chest. People were hollering at them, clapping along and joining in the singing before taking their own partners, spinning around with wide smiles and booming laughs. Evelyn looked around at the couples dancing, spotting Richard Winters leading a petit black haired nurse forward before dipping her low. They caught each other’s gazes for a moment and she smiled encouragingly, knowing from playful stories that he was shy around women. Lewis whooped loudly and then they were swept back up into the throng of people,

“Are you having fun?” he asked her, leaning in close to her ear,

“Of course!” Evelyn answered with a laugh, “Are you?”

Lewis smiled and she felt his hair against her cheek, “I haven’t had a drop to drink tonight, thought I’d keep myself sober for you,”

“I do not mind, sometimes it is fun delivering you back to your billet,” she reminisced all the times she had hoisted Lewis through the streets and into Richard’s arms, thanking him brightly before crossing the road and retreating into her own billet. The wife, Mrs Jones, would always try to wait up for her but Evelyn always found her asleep in the chair by the window in the front room, with a book in her small fingers and a cold cup of tea by her feet.

“Well, I’m gonna get you back home black out drunk if I can,” Lewis promised and Evelyn shook her head with a smile,

“Alcohol has no effect on me Lewis; I thought that you knew by now?” he shrugged his shoulders,

“It was just an idea,” he stopped dancing and led her through the crowd, “You’re vulnerable tonight, I’ve seen a couple boys eyeing you up and it’s not because of your skirt,”

“I look like those girls on the calendars,” Evelyn followed him to the bar and he ordered her a pint of ale, “A pin girl,”

“The best pin girl around though,” he chuckled at her ignorance and watched her drink the liquid, no longer surprised at how quickly and unflinchingly she did it, “C’mon, I’ll walk you home; we start briefing for Market Garden tomorrow,”

Evelyn nodded a little dejectedly and left a handful of money on the bar top, bidding a couple of her friends good night before joining Lewis at the pub entrance, watching him light a cigarette and blow smoke into the warm spring air. They walked in silence, passing blacked out houses and empty shops with cloth covering the displays, stopping in the main square to kick at the gathering frost on the green. It was nice not having to carry Lewis, she found it rather childish the way he would cling to her and sometimes cry into her shoulder. He missed his wife dearly and he often drank to his woes, toasting to anything and everything, buying the whole pub rounds of scotch until he had no money left. It was a change for them to be prancing around the village green, trying to soak each other with the white dew that coated the grass and the crocuses. Lewis was still managing to take long drags from his cigarette in between chasing Evelyn, and when he finished it, he suddenly turned somber,

“No, I’m serious,” he was frowning, “I promised Dick I’d get you in before midnight,”

“Why does he care for my curfew?” Evelyn was curious; her captain didn’t take any concern into when the other men got to bed granted they didn’t cause trouble when the pub closed up.

“I had to tell him about those boys from F Company,” he was referring to the night when several men had tried to pursue her and she had ended up seriously injuring one of them, “He filed an official report to Colonel Sink and he dismissed them immediately,”

“Surely I would have had to make a statement,” they were approaching her billet and Evelyn saw that the lamp in her room was still burning, though not as bright as she had left it,

“No, Sink didn’t want to cause a huge ruckus about it,” Lewis opened the gate for her and let her go past him, “It’s better this way, if there had been an official hearing then it would have been reported – and then the press in America would’ve found out about it,”

“And then HYDRA, I understand,” Evelyn put a hand on his arm and smiled stiffly, “I suppose I should stop attracting trouble,”

“I’d assume that’s pretty hard for a genetically engineered mutant,” he quipped and lit another cigarette, “I’ll see you in the morning, I think it’s 0600 – I can’t remember,”

Evelyn watched him walk back down the street from her window, brushing her hair and getting undressed. When he disappeared round the corner, she wondered where he was going because his billet was in the other direction.

 

Lewis Nixon was bleary eyed and grey skinned when Evelyn marched into the hangar with the rest of her company, and he would not meet her eyes when she glanced over at him. Although he looked incredibly unwell, he delivered the plans on Operation Market Garden in immense detail, along with the other senior officers. It was going to be the biggest airborne drop ever attempted; all of them were going to be under the command of General Montgomery and the British forces. Evelyn was asked to translate road signs and shop names, teach the battalion how to pronounce particular town or village names and how to say the basic Dutch phrases like ‘stop’, ‘American’ and ‘hide’. Colonel Sink congratulated her after she finished her lectures with her battalion and then promptly told her to visit the rest of the regiment and deliver talks on the Dutch. Evelyn was more than willing and spent over a week travelling around, gaining new friends and comrades with her ‘to-the-point’ lectures; she was taught how to drive so she could transport herself around and given a hefty reward for her work,

“Phillips?” it was the morning of the jump, men were all over the tarmac in varying stages of being fixed into their webbing and straps. Evelyn was being helped into her own by Carwood Lipton, holding her breath as he tightened the straps over her chest and around her thighs. It was sweaty work, everyone around her was huffing and puffing with the effort, helping each other before doing themselves; it was a group effort.

“Lift your arms for me,” Lipton instructed her and she obeyed, letting him clip her webbing around her waist and put a life jacket over her head, “Okay, you’re all done,”

“Phillips?” someone was calling for her, waving a thing package around like a flag,

“Here!” she shouted, raising her hand and the man struggled over to where she was stood, handing her the package and a note before continuing to deliver letters. Lipton helped her squat on the floor and put her helmet on her head while she opened the package,

“Oh wow!” he exclaimed and Evelyn stifled a gasp as she pulled away the brown paper wrappings. Consulting the note for proof, Evelyn had been sent a state of the art sniper rifle from Michael back in America. It was modelled from the original American M1 rifle but it was lighter with a shorter barrel and a bigger scope that had dials on it to adjust the magnification. Evelyn held it up and aimed at something in the distance, testing out how it felt and she grinned,

“It is perfect,” she concluded, pleased that it felt nothing like the type of gun she used in HYDRA. She fixed the strap up and loaded it, finding that the usual bullets fit the cartridge perfectly. Lipton smiled at her and then gestured for her to help him into his parachute webbing, blushing as hard as she did when she knelt in front of him to tighten the chords through his legs.

 

Evelyn was sat next to Bill Guarnere in the plane and the whole time he had his hand on her knee to stop it from fidgeting around. She was nervous and the entire platoon could see it, the way she turned steadily paler and the way she constantly peered around out of the window, gulping when she saw that they were still over sea. Pat Christenson had offered her his rosary but she shook her head, hiding the disgusted look on her face remarkably well. If there was no God when she was with HYDRA, then there was no God with them in Holland.

Her pack nearly prevented her from standing up when the red light switched on, having to be hoisted to her feet by Guarnere and Christenson, and placed beneath the wire where she would clip her parachute on to. Compared to all the men in the plane, Evelyn was tiny, dwarfed by her pack and looking like a scared child as they approached the drop zone. She could see red smoke which indicated their zone and she gulped a little, torn between hysterical nervousness and excitement. On her last jump in England to qualify as a paratrooper, the plane’s engine had rattled right through her and she had enjoyed it, joking around with the other men and playing with her harness. Now, she was quivering in her boots and wondering where her sudden fear had come from. The noise of the plane was drowned out by the thumping of her own heart and she had to strain her ears to catch the mark off, shouting her number but hardly hearing it. The rope she held on to burned her hands and her helmet felt far too large for her head, rattling around with the movement of the plane; her pack was weighing her down but the strain did not pain her, the harness cut into her skin but it did not cause her any discomfort. Harry Welsch turned back to look at her and she saw a face at war, conflicted but excited like a child at Christmas. His cheeks were stained pink from the wind and his grin wrinkled his cheeks, he gave her a wink and touched her shoulder.

Then the light turned green and someone was shouting for them to ‘jump, jump, jump’. Harry was the first out of the plan, whooping with adrenalin and waving his feet as he sailed through the air. Evelyn counted to 5000 before she launched out of the plane with her eyes closed and her arms crossed tightly over her chest. The wind whistled in her ears, the planed hummed above her and her body was jerked upwards a little as her parachute opened with a snap. Evelyn opened her eyes and wound her fingers into the chords above her head, tensing all her muscles and directing her parachute into the wind like she was taught to. The sight around her was immense; men were falling all around her like white raindrops, planes soared overhead with roars of farewell, the fields below her looked like small jigsaw pieces with tiny trees dotted about, men the size of beetles scurrying around. There were clouds of red smoke wafting into the air, showing people where to land safely and Evelyn pulled sharply to her right, grinding her jaw and bracing herself for the impact. It was quite peaceful in the sky; it was freeing and she understood why birds were always flying and always happy. In HYDRA, she had to stay to the ground, keep close to the shadows, be constantly detained in confining cuffs and fit herself into tiny spaces to avoid being found. She finally understood that being American was to be free, and that Michael had kept his promise from all those months ago in Belgium.

The ground was hard as she struck it but she rolled onto her thighs and onto her side to prevent the impact from shattering her bones. Men were doing the same all around her, some struggling to remove their parachute and some just giving up when a Normandy veteran came over to help them. Harry Welsch had landed not too far away and barrelled over to Evelyn, yanking her life jacket over her head and fumbling with the harness,

“Wait, wait,” Evelyn smacked his fingers away and tore at the thick chords, ripping them from her chest and throwing them to the ground,

“Or we could do that,” Harry gave her helmet back, “C’mon, quick and quiet!” they ran with their heads down, joining many more who were doing the same thing. Some men were carrying pieces of machine gun and elements of mortar tubes concealed in canvas bags stretched between two men. Evelyn, like a majority, only had her rifle but she had more ammunition and an extra bayonet for close quartered combat. Major Horton had personally seen to her being assigned one,

“Seeing as your gonna be up in all the action all the time,”

 

1st platoon were waiting for their lieutenant behind a thick hedgerow made up of hazel and blackberry bushes. Evelyn crouched next to George Luz and they shook hands hastily,

“Where’ve you been doll?” he asked and she shrugged her shoulders,

“Same as you, invading Holland,” several men made noises of agreement and George laughed, watching Harry give orders out of the corner of his eye, “I know Nixon said not to expect opposition but just be careful,” she pointed out quietly and Harry nodded in acknowledgment before making the signal to move. Across the field Evelyn could see another platoon doing the same thing, running in single file along the hedgerow with determined movements and bowed heads. She was behind Harry and she could hear him controlling his breaths, breathing through his nose and trying to be as quiet as he could which could not be said about the new recruits. Many of them had graduated jump school in the same class as Evelyn and had been rather excited about being in a platoon with her, all wanting to hear stories about Normandy and all desperately wanting to be her friend. Bill Guarnere had told her not to make personal links because they were just replacements, most of them would die and she would be stuck with the grief. She had seen him getting close to a ginger haired boy called Babe and had wondered why she wasn’t allowed to do the same. On the airfield back in England, three replacements had asked for shooting tips because they wanted to ‘learn from the best’ and she had willingly obliged, altering their stance and telling them to do different things based on their posture or the way they held the gun. No one had argued with what she was doing in fact, several of the original men from E Company had joined in, asking questions and allowing her to correct them.

She could hear the replacement’s pants far behind her, puffing away every time their boots hit the ground. Evelyn lifted her head a little and saw the tops of houses over the hedgerow, all grey and crumbling, some had flower boxes and pretty green shutters on the windows. Harry called for them to stop at the same time the platoon across the field did, crouching behind a rotting old gate that separated them from the town they were aimed to liberate. Evelyn got a look at the house closest to them; it was a smart brick building with blue windows and neat garden rows, much like the houses back in England. There was silence for a moment as Harry and the other lieutenant communicated to each other, neither of them noticing the window of the pretty house opening. Evelyn snapped into action, raising her rifle and aiming at the women who appeared from the darkness of the room. Everyone held their breath as she took something out of her apron and shook it out before hanging it on the flower box. It was an orange flag.

 

 

The American’s were welcomed into Eindhoven with music, food, dancing, flags and kisses. 1st platoon was swarmed by citizens when they entered the town, split up with the promise of praise and joyous celebration. Evelyn was pounced on by a group of young girls no older than fifteen, showering her with kisses and stroking her cheeks with teary eyes. She could hear Ronald Spiers of F Company shouting for the men to keep moving and she apologised to the girls before hurrying on, one hand on her helmet and one on her rifle. Her height put her at a disadvantage and she struggled to see where her company was, jumping about and politely declining food handed to her from all directions. The crowd was lovely and full of brightness but it was also too dense, everyone was dancing around and clapping the soldiers who mingled around with equally bright smiles, accepting the affections of the natives. A space appeared in front of Evelyn and she spotted Captain Winters and the other officers gathered on a street corner, all looking concerned and tucking their collars up, hiding their ranks from any hidden snipers. She looked around with narrowed eyes, squinting up into open windows and holes in roofs, the silver glint of a gun attracting her attention. She turned on the spot, discreetly searching and counting all the rifles pointed down on the crowd, not noticing a large group of people migrating at an alarming speed towards her. They collided with her and she lost balance, falling to the ground and losing her helmet in the process. Evelyn stayed on the floor, struggling to find the strength to get to her feet and busying herself with her boot laces which spontaneously needed to be tightened. Someone appeared at her side, grasping her round the waist and hoisting her up,

“Are you alright?” Richard spoke to her gently, “Where’s your helmet?”

“I lost it,” she replied and he bent down to retrieve it, placing it back on her head,

“C’mere,” his arm was back round her waist and he seemed to shield her from the crowds, guiding her over to the other officers,

“There is a lot of people,” Evelyn’s comment was not positive, “There is a lot that could happen, it is dangerous here,”

“Me and you the same doll,” Lewis stepped forward, “I didn’t think it would be this easy,” they all looked around darkly, watching CO’s shouting at their men, ripping them away from women and shunting them along the streets,

“I went to a town like this,” Evelyn mumbled and Richard tightened his grip on her waist, “They were all so easy to pick out,” her words send chills through their spines but the bleak moment passed when a group of men passed them, dragging a sobbing woman along with them. Her eyes met Evelyn’s for a second, reaching fingers and begging for help, for mercy, speaking in broken English and then weeping in Dutch,

“Jesus Christ,” Lewis said through gritted teeth and they all followed the group back to the middle of the town, where a crowd had gathered,

“Oh my,” Evelyn’s hands immediately tugged her helmet securely on to her head, trying to conceal as much of her hair as possible for the sight before her was all too familiar. Six women, in various stages of undress, had been forced to their knees and being shaven, rather carelessly and a few had blood streaming down their foreheads. Evelyn knew that kind of pain; she was familiar with the pain of humiliation. She had been shaved every year, tufts of brown hair falling to the floor and white hair growing in its place; it had never been longer than her shoulders, not even before she was mutated.

The flash of gold scissors filled her vision, shadowed by a silent woman who stood in the middle of a white tiled room, pointing at a wide metal chair that had dents on the arms in the shape of fingers. They had said it was clean and efficient, that her hair would get in the way; it would draw too much attention if she went undercover; it made her too feminine.

 _Feminine_.

That word, something about it made her feel warm, the broken memories fading to nothing as a young man appeared behind the group of officers, explaining that the women were getting their heads shaved because they had slept with the German soldiers.

“D’you know what they’re saying?” Lieutenant Buck Compton sidled up behind her, watching the scene unfold over her head,

“Traitors,” her reply was short and a little sour, still recovering from the memories the scissors and the shears brought forward,

“You know what it feels like?” the man introduced himself as Mr Van Kooijk of the Dutch Resistance, “To have your head shaved, yes?” he was talking to Evelyn, obviously noticing her anxiety and her attempts to cover her hair,

“It was necessary, it was efficient,” her admission caused Lewis to clear his throat uncomfortably, “I am sorry,” only the Dutch man replied to her, dipping his head solemnly at her before turning to the officers and talking to them about their plans for the liberation. Evelyn followed, her hands turning white from holding her rifle so tight and her eyes flicked to every window, every crack in the plaster, anywhere large enough to fit the barrel of a gun through. As they walked through the town, they gathered more men and issued more orders to find the last lingering groups, setting up patrols and being shown to a field where they could all rest for the night. It was an orchard, located just outside the town, in a small valley that a rivulet ran through and by the time the regiment set up HQ in the farm buildings at the far end; it was well into the night.

 

Evelyn was given the night watch at the highest point of the field, sitting on the fence clutching her rifle and nibbling on a sweet cracker one of the natives had given her. She could see the entire orchard from where she was perched, every man who was trying to get comfortable beneath the trees, every game of cards that was taking place, every pair patrolling the perimeters, every officer winding his way through the soldiers with orders for the next day. They were to move on tomorrow, joining up with a tank division and continuing towards the bridges they were supposed to capture for the British. Evelyn had not seen General Montgomery, she wondered if he even knew that she was playing a role in his grand plan, she wondered if General Eisenhower and Taylor knew where she was and what she was doing; she wondered about Michael and Finley, what they were doing for the war and if they had successfully found the rest of HYDRA. They didn’t have any bases in Holland, it was too vital to the Nazis for a rogue science division to plant roots there so a majority of the facilities were in Austria and Germany. It meant that the likelihood of Evelyn and her battalion coming across a facility was very low, and she wouldn’t have to be put through the horrors all over again after such a short amount of time being out of their clutches. All she had to focus on was the men, the safety of her brothers and of her superiors.


	18. Chapter 18

Evelyn had declined the offer to ride on the tanks like everyone else, volunteering to join the leading group and scouting ahead, traipsing through the fields of corn and wild flowers, keeping her eyes on ditches and hedgerows. It was peaceful countryside, an oddity in the middle of a war zone; the grass was just turning, wheat grew tall in fields, small glades separated the landscape into delicate paintings and old, stone farmhouses stood desolate and wrought with ivy. It seemed as though no one had disturbed this landscape for several years, leaving nature to run its course and move into places where humans had once dwelled. The sky was overcast and the clouds were a dull white, a breeze rippling through the grass like waves on an emerald sea. The peace was only broken by the roar of the tanks but everybody had gotten used to them now, admiring the scenery and paying no mind to the great metal beasts that rolled along behind them. Evelyn knew what town they were coming up to, a quaint hamlet called Nuenen that consisted of mainly farm buildings and rickety old houses, most of them crumbling with age and submitting to ruin. Her rifle was slung over her shoulder as she walked next to a new recruit called James Miller, testing him on his French but never taking her attention fully away from her surroundings.

Someone ordered them to stop and a man strode onwards, unfolding a map and fumbling with the binoculars around his neck,

“He makes quite the target, don’t he?” Donald Hoobler commented with a laugh and Evelyn swallowed, her mouth suddenly becoming uncomfortably dry. Lieutenant Brewer looked back to his soldiers and waved gleefully, pointing at something on the map. Evelyn cocked her gun and raised it, peering down the scope at the buildings a few yards in front of them, focusing on dark windows and empty doorways. There was a farmhouse on the right of the road with a wide, glassless window in the roof and she had moments to react before there was a gun.

“SNIPER!” she cried and began shooting, catching the German but only milliseconds after he had taken his shot. There was a crack and Brewer was on the floor, squirming around in the dust with blood spurting from his neck. People instantly began scrambling to their guns, dropping off the tanks and into ditches for cover. A small vehicle roared away, veering across the field and over the road and the tanks all swivelled their barrels to take aim, spitting out shell after shell. The vehicle exploded with the second blast, coming to a halt and crashing into a telegram pole, the back of it opening and several men in black uniforms piling out. People began shooting, sporadically, clumsily, stupidly but the fleeing Germans were cut down in a matter of minutes. A medic ran towards the lieutenant but as he crouched down to dress the wound, he too was shot through the leg. Evelyn reloaded her gun and took aim, spotting where the second sniper was and silencing him with a bullet through his mouth.

“C’mon Private!” Harry Welsch urged her to follow him and she fell into step with Bill Guarnere, vaulting over low garden walls and trampling through neat flower beds, throwing themselves against the sides of houses to avoid German fire. They all sprinted through a cemetery, crouching behind headstones for a moment before moving on, throwing themselves against walls and through fences. It was all quiet, Harry whispering orders and Bill directing the mortar squad into position, resting his gun on a wall and urging the rest of the infantry to do the same.

Then the fire started. An American tank exploded somewhere near the middle of town and suddenly they were being assaulted from all directions, machine guns rattling from above them, snipers hissing through the air, grenades throwing dirt up and bazookas blasting down walls. The grass around them was kicked up with bullets and four men were shot, slumping to the ground with howls of pain hardly heard over the sound of battle. Bill called for them to fall back, shooting at anything that moved, waving instructions with muddied fingers, pulling men from the ground and guiding them to safety. More men dropped to the ground and Bill swore, flattening himself against a window and not daring move.

He shouted at Evelyn desperately and she fell on to her stomach, crawling behind a gate and raising her rifle,

“Top right window!”

“I cannot see!” she shouted back and craned her neck. There was a deafening clang and something hot whipped across the side of her head,

“We’re zeroed Phillips, you have to get them!”

“Get it Eve! Hurry up goddamn it!”

So many of her friends were bellowing orders or words of encouragement that she was forced to shut them out, using the training from HYDRA to focus her being solely on taking out the target. But Evelyn couldn’t see the sniper, there was the corner of a building blocking her view and the only way she could get around the obstacle was to stand up and risk getting shot. She felt the warmness of blood trickling behind her ear from the bullet scrape and she looked back at her squad for a moment, watching some of them try to advance forward only to be forced back by the deadly sniper fire. Her knees groaned as she shuffled along the base of the wall, coming to the corner of the garden and sucking in a deep breath.

“WHAT THE FUCK EVELYN!” she jumped to her feet and vaulted over the wall, using the momentum to launch herself into the air. The Germans in the building screamed as she blasted through the wall, immediately tackling one soldier before shooting the second. It was over in a moment, her comrades looking up at the hole she’d made with open mouths, some of them cheering as she emerged from the brick and dust,

“Nice one Phillips!” Buck Compton shouted and fired his gun at something down the street, “But we gotta go!”

Evelyn dropped down from the ruins of the house, the landing making her knees creak but she carried on, following her platoon out of the firefight. Houses and building exploded all around them, plaster and rubble taking out men left, right and centre. The sound was overwhelming, mortars whistling through the sky, Germans yelling in their advance, tanks roaring onwards, machine guns spitting out bullets faster than any man could run.

“Fall back! Fall back!” Harry was shouting at them, waving for them to turn around and retreat, “They’ve outflanked us!”

The replacement beside her fell with a cry, clutching his knee and Evelyn doubled back, reaching under his arms and dragging him out of the street. There were soldiers everywhere, everyone was shooting, screaming, crying, praying, dying; and Evelyn didn’t mistake the familiar sound of shells whistling through the air,

“MORTAR!” the replacement shrieked and the platoon scattered, diving for cover, trying to get injured men out of the way and crawling out of the line of fire. A mortar exploded two foot to her right but she was too caught up in attending the wounded replacement to react. The explosion sent to two sailing through the air, Evelyn landing heavily on her back and her helmet crashed into her stomach, knocking the breath from her lungs. Her ears were ringing and there was soil in her mouth but she rolled onto her knees, crawling over to where the replacement lay. There was a large hole in his side and his face was virtually unidentifiable from the dirt, blood and shrapnel littering his skin. Evelyn ground her teeth and let out a frustrated growl, scrambling to her feet and sprinting away from the town, like the rest of her comrades. There were American soldiers running around like crazed mice, dodging bullets and falling shells, shooting behind them without taking aim or even opening their eyes to see where the Germans were; the tanks were retreating too, their guns useless against the oncoming Panzers.

“Lieutenant!” Evelyn spotted Buck lying on the side of the road, surrounded by ‘doc’ Roe, Donald Malarkey and Bill Guarnere, all trying to convince him that he was going to live and that they were going to get him out of there, “Here, I will carry you,” she dropped to her knees and handed Malarkey her rifle, rolling up her sleeves and reaching for him,

“No!” he cringed, clutching at his buttocks, “I’m too heavy for ya, you’ll snap in half!”

Roe began to argue, “He’s right Evelyn, he’s a big guy – you’ll never manage,”

“So we are supposed to just leave him here?” she was fed up with people making brash decisions; there was always the chance to live even if it had a cost. Buck nodded and leaned up, looking behind him at the advancing Germans,

“Yeah, leave me to the Krauts Eve, save yourself!” Evelyn ignored him and forced his arm over her shoulder, rolling him over and sliding her hand through his legs,

“I do not sympathise with martyrs lieutenant,” she hissed and hoisted him on to her back, standing up with surprising ease, “Come on!” Buck was still protesting as she began jogging down the road, lifting her shields to follow them because even though she was strong; it was still difficult to move quickly to dodge bullets. Guarnere and Malarkey followed, grinning at Buck’s expense at being carried by a woman a foot shorter than him and several inches narrower. They rounded behind a tank and Evelyn gently lowered Buck into the back of an open top lorry where several other injured men were being treated,

“Thank you Private,” one of the medics muttered and began to assess Buck’s buttocks, trying not to laugh at the state of him,

“You were awesome Eve!” Malarkey handed her rifle back and clutched her shoulder. She smiled in response, her cheeks colouring and she turned to look back at the town of Nuenen just as an unseen sniper took aim from a far off clock tower,

“LEWIS!” she saw the bullet travel through the air in slow motion, sailing straight towards him and he mistakenly straightened at the sound of his name. Evelyn’s hand flew up and a force field appeared in front of Lewis’ nose, stopping the bullet in its tracks. He shouted out in shock and stumbled backwards, clutching his face as though he had really been shot,

“THERE’S INFANTRY EVERYWHERE!” Evelyn had no time to see Lewis, running forward and leaning against the front quarter of a tank, shooting every time its crew reloaded the barrel. Each time she pulled the trigger, a German fell with a fatal wound, bleeding out and writhing around on the ground or staying still as death took them. Her comrades watched her work with wide eyes, lowering their guns as she spit out bullets like they were words, hitting targets they couldn’t see, hitting moving men, crawling men, men in tanks –

“C’mon Eve, that’s enough!” Bill was at her side, forcing her rifle down with a growl, “We’re retreating, stop shooting goddamn it!”

Evelyn dropped her rifle like it burned her, falling against the side of the tank and resting her head against her knees. She had only a thread of control left, if Bill hadn’t of pulled her attention back to reality; then she would have gotten up and run back into the town, destroying everything in her path even when her ammunition ran out,

“Jesus doll, what were you thinking?” he had crouched next to her and pulled her hands away from her face, “You shot a whole goddamned company,”

“I know, I know, I am sorry,” her voice was panicked, throaty from the smoke and dense air that surrounded them,

“There’s no need to apologise Private,” Richard lifted her from the ground and handed back her rifle, “A lot more men would’ve died today,” she nodded tearfully and scrubbed at her nose, sniffing before turning her back on Nuenen and walking away.

“She’s troubled,” Richard commented and Bill scoffed,

“I’ll say, she’s a goddamn machine,” they watched her catch up with the lorry Buck Compton was laying in, jumping on to the back of it and sitting down, tucking her legs underneath her and removing her helmet. She scratched her head and accepted a drink from Buck, gulping the water down like her life depended on it. Bill shrugged at his captain and followed on, leaving Richard alone to stare after them. She was strong; she carried her lieutenant like he was a child and she had given the retreating men covering fire until she was shooting blanks. They were lucky to have her.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haven't finished this

The crossroads had been her mission, scoping it out, covered from head to toe in black with only her pistol to defend herself with. It had been Major Doby from the British parachute regiment who had given the command, overriding anything Captain Winters tried to say. Doby pulled the General Eisenhower card and suddenly all Evelyn’s superiors were powerless, standing by and watching her receive orders from someone they hardly knew. She was just as respectful, there was no bitterness or resentment in her voice when she pointed out places to scout and unknown territories, speaking to him like she spoke to any of her leading officers. Colonel Sink was understanding, pitching in every so often references to all of Evelyn’s past successes but it was the other officers who were seething with anger; even Major Strayer had to step outside for a while,

“She’s our best soldier and the Limey’s have got her?” Lieutenant ‘Moose’ Haylinger was mostly disappointed that no one else was involved in planning her missions, pacing outside the office while Richard and Lewis leant against the wall with folded arms and equally sour expressions on their faces. Lewis had been the one to argue with the brass over her loyalty, stating she was part of the 101st and that they should have a say in what she was doing but Colonel Sink had sent them out with bristling shoulders,

“We decide now Captain, she’s in our hands,” Richard had caught a glance at Evelyn before the doors closed and he saw her face, pale and overcast like the current state outside. The meeting took an hour exactly and when Evelyn was shown out of the office, she tore past her friends and down the road. Lewis, Haylinger and Richard all looked at each other before taking off after her, shouting and waving,

“HEY EVE!” Lewis was the loudest but Richard was the fastest, his longer legs giving him a chance to barely catch up with her,

“Private!” he reached out to grab at her uniform but she dodged out of the way, “Private Phillips! Stop! That’s an order!”

Evelyn skidded to a halt, obeying the order even if she didn’t want to but she did not turn around to look at her captain or her lieutenant,

“I have a patrol to prepare for sir,” she mumbled and ‘Moose’ jogged up in front of her,

“What happened in there?” he asked her sincerely, bending a little to look her in the eyes only to find them glassy, tears threatening to spill over,

“I was given a mission,” there was a small amount of remorse in her tone, “Eisenhower told me, before I enlisted, that my superiors could send me on special exercises where they saw fit. I did not realise how!”

“You mean a lot to us doll-,” she rounded on Lewis, her eyes wide and tears wetting her cheeks,

“You did not help!” Evelyn pointed an accusing finger at him, “You acted the same, you only wanted to plan for me too – I am more than a figure you can control!” Lewis moved to comfort her but she ducked beneath his outstretched arms, “I want assurance, I want to voice an opinion and today you seem to think my opinion does not matter. If men are dying – if my brothers are being _slaughtered_ – like they were on the beaches, then I must be the one to save them even if it is at the cost of my own life; I do it for them,”

Then she ran, faster than they had ever seen her run; her figure disappearing in a cloud of dust,

“Where she was trained, they kept her under lock and key,” Lewis put a hand on Richard’s shoulder, noticing that he had not said a word throughout the whole ordeal, “If she didn’t follow an order, she was punished and by that I mean torn apart and put back together again,”

“Jesus Christ,” Moose took off his helmet and rubbed his eyes,

“This is freedom to her,” he continued, “And she didn’t get a voice then, she doesn’t get a voice now only because she’s a woman. I understand why she’s pissed; she was told to do the right thing and here, the right thing is following orders and not asking questions,”

 

Evelyn followed their orders to the very word, struggling to get Richard’s shocked face out of her head as she crept along the base of a dike, her face stained with oil and charcoal. George Luz had helped her prepare, painting her face and skin as she cleaned her pistol, loading it and storing numerous cartridges around her person. Her platoon had seen her off, Bill Guarnere leaning on the door of the barn they were staying in and squeezing her shoulder before she left, cursing Major Doby when she crossed the road and began her trek to the crossroads where she was stationed. Her boots were so well worn in that they made no sound when she ran, and her thin shirt made no noise as she crawled through ditches and across fields. The crossroads were not far away, two or three miles up the road from Regimental Headquarters but Evelyn took a more cautious route, treading carefully through a thicket before emerging on the far side of the main dike. No one had properly mapped this area yet and it was her job to gather Intel on where the Germans were stationed. It was midnight by the time she tucked herself against the rise of the road, pulling out a small pad of paper and a pencil, sketching out the roads and dikes surrounding her, shading in the ditches and crosshatching the fields. There was a sudden spurt of gun fire a few hundred meters away and Evelyn lifted her head a little, spying a 47 inch gun aimed straight down the main road towards the Regimental HQ. She drew a square and wrote down a few notes on it, thinking back to when HYDRA had her train with German soldiers about weapons and the workings of the Wehrmacht. Her orders were only to observe, not to engage and she let the gun continue sporadically firing, turning her attention instead to the other side of the road closest to her. There was movement and she heard quiet voices chatting in German, complaining about the weather and what they were eating that night. Evelyn made sure the darkness covered her as she leapt across the road, curling herself behind a small tussock on the dike lining the road. Approximately ten meters to her right were the German soldiers and five hundred meters to her left was the 47inch gun, still randomly firing. The grass barely hid her but she kept her body as small as possible, like HYDRA had taught her and she pushed up, crawling very slowly up the side of the dike, always keeping her eyes trained on the Germans and her eyes open to what was occurring behind her. Evelyn reached the top of the dike and lay flat, casting her gaze around and gently pulling out her pad, drawing any other details she saw from her higher viewpoint; the ferry crossing, the river and its bridges, and the stone structure built into the dike that the Germans were residing in. A white beam of light suddenly flittered on and began sweeping across the ferry crossing, arching to a point just below where Evelyn was. She pressed her cheek into the ground, not caring that mud was seeping into her eye and she held her breath, ceasing all movement so the search light wouldn’t find her. Water splashing and people laughing reached her ears and Evelyn opened one eye, casting her gaze down to the river below, spying several small boats approaching the hastily made dock. It was more of a couple of planks of wood tied together but it was sturdy enough so that the boats could unload their cargo. Evelyn counted 48 men and their weapons, watching them descend into the stone structure with loud shouts of welcome and celebration, cursing the British and claiming the Europe was theirs. The search light was turned off as the noise died down and Evelyn took her chance, sliding back down the dike and wiping mud from her eyes when she reached the bottom.

“ _What the hell-?_ ” there was a man on the road, a German and he was pointing his gun right at her with bright eyes, “ _Oi!”_

She lunged at him, tackling him to the ground with one hand smacked over his mouth. The German flailed against her, beating his fists against her thighs that were squeezing his waist and she felt him scream when four of his ribs cracked. He tried to reach for his pistol on his hip but she snatched it up, slamming it on the ground and shattering it into pieces. He still fought, scratching at her face hard enough to draw blood and he punched her in the stomach, though it had no effect.

She didn’t see the knife he was holding, she didn’t know where it came from and she barely saw him raise it to stab her in the thigh. The blade pierced her skin, twisting slightly before she could react, clenching his wrist until he dropped the weapon and the bones broke beneath his skin. Then her free hand went to his throat and she covered his nose, baring her weight down on him as his limbs began to flail about, trying to get her off him. Her teeth were bared and her eyes red, seeing a young woman struggling beneath her in a white nightgown, reaching out to the dead men next to them. The ringing in her ears grew louder as movements ceased, the victim going still and pale.

Evelyn rolled off the road, leaving the German man lying on the road with blue skin and terror filled eyes. She rubbed her face and sighed, making sure the pad of paper was still in her pocket before retracing her path back to Regimental HQ, through the thicket and fields, along the road and past her platoon’s billet. The door to the barn was still open and orange light filtered into the night, beckoning Evelyn with the promise of comfort, cheer and food; the sound of laughter reached her ears and there was no mistaking George Luz’s voice as he told a joke but she had to press on, walking on the other side of the road so to not draw any attention to herself. Regimental Headquarters was a few hundred meters from her billet and she spotted the great arch looming through the shadows, the white of the stone shining even under the absence of a moon. Through the arch made way to a courtyard that had stables, barns, houses, granaries; it was once a fully working and rather wealthy farm, perishing under the Germans and falling into ruin until the 101st bore down on it. The main offices were in the old house, directly beneath the arch and through a pair of constantly guarded green doors. The two soldiers waved her through with smiles, warning her about the grouchiness of the officers because of how late it was. Evelyn was expecting a quiet room with only errand runners around but when her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she found that there were people everywhere; plotting maps, planning attacks, making phone calls, writing reports, running about with huge armfuls of paper and a majority of them were smoking,

“Major Doby?” she called and she spotted him leaning over a map that was spread over an entire table, turning steadily pinker each time someone other than him opened their mouth, “Sir, I have what you wanted,”

“Ah – good, fine,” his eyes brightened when she trotted over, saluting before taking out her pad and pencil, “Give it here then,” he snatched the paper before she got a chance to give it over, flipping through her diagrams and notes, falling silent for a few seconds. He growled and squared his shoulders, “What is this?” Doby pointed at her notes, “Why are they in Polish?”

The room went quiet at his comment and Evelyn’s skin prickled,

“Should I have been captured, there would be less of a chance of them deciphering the notes,” she explained and several men nodded their heads in agreement, along with Doby who tossed the notepad back to her,

“You’ll have to translate it then, tell me what you got,” he gave her a pencil and Evelyn got straight to work, circling where the 47inch gun was, how far away it was from the ferry crossing and how many Germans she thought were in the stone structure beneath the dike, all the while talking about her findings and explaining some of the conversations she had overheard. She did not tell them about the fatality, and she was planning on keeping to herself until Major Doby told her to report to Captain Winters,

“Every detail?” her lips were thin when he nodded in reply, saluting sharply before dismissing her with a flourish of his hand. Evelyn exited the offices and carried on into the courtyard, drifting up a set of narrow stairs right to the top of a wood framed cottage, stopping in front of a door,

“Captain?” her voice was unmistakeable and Richard nearly fell off his bed, pulling on a shirt and hurriedly checking his reflection in the mirror, “Captain, it is Evelyn, can I come in?”

“Yeah, yeah!” he tripped down the three steps to open the door for her, turning a little red at his own eagerness, “Hello, Private – erm – are you okay?” she was stood below him with her arms wrapped around her middle,

“I came to give you my report,” he nodded and let her into the room, padding over to his desk and lighting a candle, “Major Doby sent me, I hope it is not too late,”

“No, no,” Richard straightened the typewriter and inserted a sheet of paper, “Sit down Private,” Evelyn was stood in the middle of the room, looking quite lost with downcast eyes and pursed lips. She had never been inside his bedroom before, she had never been inside a man’s room before and it was all quite foreign; there was a bed on one side, next to the steps leading to the door and a small desk sat beneath an open window; a mirror hung over a small, black fireplace and a basin stood on top of a handsome set of drawers, complete with a jug and a towel. It was a rather empty place, void of all personal items, most of which were probably hidden away in his footlocker next to the bed.

Richard watched her observe his room, leaning his elbows on the desk and pressing his fingers against his lips. She moved over to the foot of his bed and gently sat down, rubbing her muddy hands on her thighs,

“What time were you deployed?” he ignored the way she looked at him from beneath her lashes,

“2200 hours, I left my billet then and arrived at the crossroads at 2300,” Evelyn started her account, keeping it short and simple, talking slowly and with a gentle voice so Richard heard everything she said, “I went across the fields and through that pear orchard, places that have not been mapped properly. I concealed myself in a ditch and started recording what I saw; the 47inch gun behind me and the ferry crossing to my left,” she continued talking, explaining what she saw and at what time, what she wrote down and what she heard, not missing anything until she spoke about the rogue German soldier, “There was a man, he was young and wearing black – he was SS. He spoke to me but I did not hear him, my orders were to not engage but I attacked him,”

“How?” Richard saw how distressed she was but he couldn’t help but push a little further, “What happened?”

“He stabbed me but I killed him,” Evelyn gripped the front of her shirt and it was only then that Richard was alerted to the dark splatters on her thigh, the rip in her trousers but his eyes saw no wound, “He would have alerted others, I could not risk it. I left him on the road and returned,”

The calmness in her voice startled him, prompting him to report that there had only been a casualty, not that there had been a killing. The only sounds in the room was the tapping of the typewriter as Richard finished the report, sliding the paper out and signing his name at the bottom,

“Evelyn,” he sat down next to her on the bed, deciding against putting an arm around her shoulders in comfort, “We all have to make decisions in our life, good ones and bad ones; you did what you had to do tonight,” Evelyn did not look at him but her posture slackened at his words,

“He was just _there_ , I did not have to kill him that way,” she admitted quietly, “– I did not have to kill him at all,”

“There was a threat and you took care of it, anyone of us would’ve done the same thing,” Richard folded his arms, “I’m proud of you, this patrol didn’t go for nothing,” she nodded and stood up, shuffling stiffly to the door,

“Thank you sir,” Evelyn tried to salute but he took her hand, shaking his head,

“Don’t worry and anyway, I never got to commemorate your medal,” Richard was a sight for sore eyes; dressed in a greying t-shirt with his uniform trousers on, his hair a curly mess, his cheeks flushed from being so close to her and his palm straightened against his temple, “Congratulations Evelyn,” she felt more honoured by her captain saluting her than the leaders of the war effort, and the head of SHIELD. Evelyn smiled at him, a real smile and left, hearing him let out a huge breath as soon as she closed the door. The smile remained on her face all through the morning, returning to her company and reciting her travels to them, this time, not leaving out the rogue German soldier and how she dealt with him. Her mind was put at ease when Bull Randleman, a huge man from the farms of Kansas, told her about his run in with a German and how he made sure to stick his bayonet in their throat more times than one. They fed her stew made by Donald Malarkey and let her try looted gin, watching her cheeks turn a pretty pink and grinned when she began lazily singing to them, first in English and then in French. It was a lovely sound, soft and inviting but reserved only for them, closing the doors so no one else could hear her; their selfishness showed a new side of her, a carefree, naïve side that struck a nerve within them all. It was sad to see her sober up, the crinkles return to her forehead and her lips tugging down when Lieutenant Haylinger crashed into the barn, alerting them to a new order based on a ‘detailed intelligence report’. They all knew it was Evelyn who had supplied that report, who had scoped out the positions crossed on the map, who had drawn in the gun placements and where the enemy was likely to be sheltering; and they only accepted and respected her more for it, for allowing the whole briefing to go smoothly, for setting them up for a sure fire victory.

 

 

Captain Winters ran along the ditch, treading on their feet and knees but no complaining followed him, only the quiet clicks of bayonets being fixed to the end of their rifles. Evelyn’s back was damp from the early morning dew that flooded the grass around them, hunched below a small bank beside the dirt road leading to the dykes. Bull Randleman’s elbow dug into her right side, his boots digging into the mud but slipping every so often so that elbow prodded deeper into her ribs, but her eyes and her mind only focused on the tree line ahead. The dykes were to their front and right, surrounding them like approaching waves on roiling seas, casting no shadow in the grey morning light. Winters told them to wait for the signal, to go on the red smoke, to do as he did.

The air was still and quiet when he leapt from the ditch, running forward across the road and then up into the field. They all waited, listening, watching for that red smoke, waiting for that signal to advance. It came quite suddenly, a strike of blood against the white sky, drifting up and spiralling into nothing; followed by six shots. Evelyn hoisted Bull out of the ditch and they ran together, all in a line, all in sync like they were back in Toccoa, back with Sobel running backwards in front of them, shouting to keep in formation, to keep together, to shoot their target.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, haven't finished and I've missed loads of stuff out, yet to write it lol but here's her return to Batsogne after a mission in Germany

HYDRA had prepared her for the cold, with 15 mile runs up snowy mountain sides and long camouflaging sessions in the pine woods of Austria. The Russians had prepared her for the lack of everything, sending her out on missions with only three bullets and a canteen of sure-smelling vodka, setting her up in crumbling houses in the biting cold winds of Eastern Europe. But nothing prepared her for the barrenness of the Ardennes forest. Evelyn had been smuggled behind the German lines in the back of a fuel truck driven by a Russian spy, a member of her squad, and he had left her with a kiss and a long fur coat that was several sizes too large for her. The sloping expanse of the forest lay below her, like a sea of white and green and black, and her ears picked up the low booms of exploding mortars. Evelyn swallowed and hoisted her rifle higher over her shoulder, tucking her hands into the pockets of her coat and trying to make herself look as inconspicuous as possible. Her boots crunched though the snow and each twig that snapped made her flinch, the noise echoing through the empty woods. There was a point where she got uncomfortably close to a group of soldiers stood in a circle, cigarette smoke coiling like snakes from their lips and Evelyn diverted her course in the opposite direction, hunching her shoulders and disappearing into the fog. The trees around her were riddled with bullets, and the number of holes in the ground containing sleeping men grew with each yard she covered. Evelyn kept as quiet as she could, inching around guns the size of automobiles and tents draped with white cloth, keeping her fingers poised on the butt of her rifle. She paused for a moment, taking her binoculars from her pocket and scanning the path ahead of her. Not two hundred meters away was the front line, the trees stopping like they had reached the edge of a cliff and dotted about them were mortar tubes and huge guns that rattled and moaned when men loaded them with shells longer and thicker than her thigh. Evelyn gulped and continued scouting a clear path, deciding with a heavy heart to make a break when the Germans began a new tirade against the Americans across the clearing.

“ _Halt_!” Something cold pressed against the back of her head, “ _Turn around, slowly_ ,” Evelyn let go of her rifle and raised her hands, though not in surrender. The German had barely a second to scream before she snatched the pistol from his gloved hands, and shot him. He crumpled to the floor in a heap and Evelyn sighed, kicking snow into the growing puddle of blood seeping from his head,

“ _What the fuck_?” What she had failed to notice was the group of soldiers in front of her, all staring like she had three heads and hooves instead of feet, “ _What the fuck! You just shot him!_ ” Three of them started running towards her and the rest raised their rifles with blazing eyes and sneers stretching across their weathered faces. Evelyn dropped the pistol and sprinted away, slipping a little on the patches of ice hidden beneath the powdered snow and bashing into trees in her attempts to make herself less of a target. It was one thing she remembered Finley teaching her back in Washington, to zig-zag, to weave and turn and jolt, so to prevent the person shooting at you from gaining a clear shot. And so that’s what she did, slipping and sliding and swearing, crashing into the odd unassuming German on patrol and causing him to join the chase. Bullets struck the trees as she ran past them, spitting pieces of bark and wood at her retreating figure,

“GET HER! SHE’S A RUSSIAN!” Calls for arms came from all directions, and the barrage kept up until she reached the edge of the forest, the edge of the enemy’s lines, the edge of No Man’s land. Evelyn paused for a split second, casting her eyes at the war torn landscape full of craters, shells, trees and bodies half-rotten. Across the way, not even half a mile from where she was stood lay her brothers, huddling in foxholes wearing uniforms made only for the summer months and surviving on biscuits and dried meat.

“Steady,” Carwood Lipton crouched low along the reserve lines, struggling to see through his binoculars at the soldiers on the other side of the clearing. They had not heard a storm of guns like that before, usually it was the thundering of bombs and the whistling of falling mortars, “Steady,”

“What the fuck’s going on over there?” Bill Guarnere stayed against the wall of his foxhole, aiming his gun but not holding the trigger, there was no point trying if the clip was empty of bullets, “What are they doing?Having a party?”

“No, I think,” Lipton shuffled forwards on his knees, squinting as hard as he could and making out a bulky figure stood just out from the trees. He saw the hat on their head with the tell-tale red star adorning the front, “It’s a -,”

“Jesus Christ,” everyone saw the Russian bolt from the trees, dodging to and fro, stumbling over the tree stumps and frozen grass tussocks, “Do we shoot?”

“No,” Lipton grasped the barrel of the gun down to his right, preventing the man from shooting, “They could be a POW,”

“Still a commie though!” Guarnere shouted over the German gunfire. They watched the Russian leap over a crater, landing heavily on the other side with a high pitched yelp before continuing on, waving at them frantically. Lipton raised his binoculars to his eyes and flinched violently when the soldier was shot in the back, their body convulsing once before tumbling to the ground,

“Not any more they’re not,” Donald Malarkey quipped from a few meters away and attempted to pull himself out of his foxhole,

“Wait!” Lipton ordered, “The Germans are looking right at us, move and they’ll have our exact positions,” he kept the binoculars trained to where the soldier had fallen, trying to convince his brain of what he had just seen. As the soldier went down, he caught a glimpse of their face and of a memory, of a person none of them had seen for a month. Someone crouched down next to him, leaning in close to his ear,

“What’s going on out there? I heard about a Russian surrendering,” Buck Compton didn’t have his helmet on and still had a cup of coffee in his hand,

“I don’t think she’s a Russian,” Lipton handed Compton the binoculars and he narrowed his eyes at the heap of furs that the Germans had been targeting.

The body shook and lifted their head an inch off the ground, and Compton instantly reacted,

“COVERING FIRE!” He barked, pointing at the soldier who had lifted themselves from the ground and was running straight for them, “IT’S PHILLIPS!” His admission sent the men into a frenzy, some even launching out of their foxholes to behind trees, bellowing for their friend to keep running towards them, waving and jumping around. They could see her clearly now that the Russian hat had fallen off, her hair as white as the snow that surrounded them and her eyes blazing like the sun in the middle of summer.

The bullet in her back sent a pang of pain every time she put her feet to the ground, but the pain only pushed her on, spotting the individual faces of the men she had learnt to call her brothers.They were cheering her on, shooting for her, rallying for her, making sure she returned to them in one piece. A smile broke across her face, and a bullet tore through her right side, hitting the ground inches from her footfall. The smile darkened to a scowl and Evelyn pulled her rifle from her shoulder, resting the butt against her chest and peering down the scope. Bullets raced past her in both directions, some tearing through her coat, some picking up the strands of hair that had fallen from its braid; but none penetrated her body. Her actions were too quick, too calculated and too accurate for the Germans to react; her rifle spitting out one bullet that struck the tip of an 88-inch shell sticking out of the snow. They were smart to hide their munitions storage trenches, but Evelyn saw everything that needed to be seen, and that one bullet set off an explosion that shook the ground and obliterated a whole battalion.

 

They welcomed her with open arms and chilly smiles, many of them trying hard not to kiss her out of sheer relief,

“Where you been darlin’?” Buck Compton was the first to sweep her off the ground, breathing in the fur of her jacket, “You stink,”

“So do you Lieutenant,” he put her down with a chuckle and she was encircled by men, all shaking her hands and clapping her shoulder,

“Hey Eve, why’d you come from the German lines?”

“Yeah and why’re wearing Russian stuff?”

Evelyn gave them a bashful smile and tucked the coat further around her waist, “I was sent to Prussia - East Germany - to play with the Red Army for a while,” there were mutters of disbelief and shock, “The only way back to our lines was through the German flanks,”

‘Babe’ Heffron shook his head, “you could’a just come in the way we did, through that little town…Bastogne, that’s it,” Evelyn stepped back with furrowed brows,

“Bastogne?” She confirmed with a shaky voice and Babe nodded, sniffing harshly, “I did not know that town was here,” she cast a weary eye back over to the German lines and sighed, “Has anyone seen Roe?”

“Doc? Yeah, he’s over with Perconte, somethin’ about toothpaste? I dunno?” Guarnere pointed behind her and Evelyn grinned,

“Is he still brushing twice a day? Anymore and the Germans are going to see him from a mile away,” the men burst out laughing, even though several had made that joke already, it seemed right to laugh with her - it felt real. Evelyn shook all their hands again and cupped Babe’s cheeks, watching the colour drain back into his skin from her warmth. He slurred a ‘thanks lovely’ and sank back into his foxhole, the rest following his lead and disappearing into the closing fog. Evelyn trudged the way that Guarnere pointed, stopping at intervals to ask how the men were doing and embracing those who hadn’t seen her yet, brushing off the comments on how warm she was and why she was limping.

“Evelyn!” Doc Roe kicked the blanket from around his knees and scrambled to his feet, leaning forward to hug her with a wide smile, “When’d you get in?” He teetered in front of her before dropping his arms, flushing a bright pink,

“Just now,” she squeezed his shoulder fondly, “I was just on my way to report to Captain Winters, and I wanted to ask a favour of you,” Roe nodded his head slowly,

“Yeah, yeah, anything. What d’ya need?” He asked,

“I got hit a few times, out in Germany and I did not have time to deal with them myself,” she watched him rummage through his satchel baring the red cross, scooping out a bandage and a small scalpel, “Not now, but do not waste your bandages on me doc, just use my undershirt. I will find you after I have reported to Captain Winters,”

Roe cleared his throat and nodded, watching her leave with a slight limp and a frown. On approach to the Battalion CP, Evelyn saw that it was merely a small collection of trenches and holes supported and roofed with trunks of young birch trees, the silver of their bark providing some level of camouflage. There was a man sat on the ground with a canteen in his lap, dabbing his chin with a sliver of fabric that looked to be stained with blood. She recognised his upright posture, his long limbs and wide shoulders, his fiery ginger hair,

“Captain Winters sir?” She called out and he jolted, springing to his feet and raising his bayonet at her, “Sir, it is just me - Private Phillips,” Evelyn held out her hands to show she held no weapon and Winters dropped the knife,

“You’re here,” he stepped from the trench and strode over, crowding over her and reaching out to press his palms into the soft skin of her cheeks, “When did you get in? How did you get in?”

“About ten minutes ago, the only way through to Allied lines was through the Germans’ battlements,” Evelyn told him quietly, a little startled at his close proximity but his hands held a warmth that her own body couldn’t provide, spreading over her skin like flames over paper,

“You’re here,” Winters repeated quietly and her hands gravitated to his forearms, clutching the thin fabric of his fatigues. Evelyn could only nod and his eyes travelled down to her throat, widening at the scar that wrinkled and discoloured her skin, “What happened?”

Evelyn avoided his gaze, “My second mission; it was a foolish mistake. My comrade told a joke and I laughed, so I paid the consequence. It took half a hour to heal,” her jaw tightened,

“I’m so sor-,” Winters began but a horse cry and a heavy thud interrupted him. Evelyn’s hand instinctively went to her rifle as a man rose from the snow, shaking leaves and dirt from his hair,

“Son of a bitch!” She knew that voice anywhere, “You son - of - a - bitch you!” Lewis Nixon did not even bother slowing before he threw himself at her, yelping when she collapsed under his weight and they fell sprawling into the snow, “I thought you’d be back in a few weeks! How’d you get here so quick?”

“Took a detour through Berlin,” Evelyn sat up and grinned, “Our boys have been going at it for weeks,” it was a relief to the two officers to hear some good news about the battle, even if that news came from far over the boarder. Evelyn scrambled to her feet and faced the men, “I wrote a report, but it was sent straight to General Taylor,”

“What was in it?” Nixon asked, eyeing the thick furs of her coat, “What did you get up to in good ol’ Moscow?” Evelyn shook her head with a small smile,

“I was sent straight to Eastern Prussia with a squad of Soviet Marksmen,” she explained, “I think I am the only person here who has been within two hundred meters of Adolf himself,” Nixon barked out a laugh and slapped her shoulder, his hand remaining curled in the lapel of the coat, “Would you like it? The coat?”

“Won’t you get cold?” Winters asked as Evelyn removed the garment upon Nixon’s enthusiastic nodding, and she took his hand suddenly. He shuddered violently at the burst of heat that radiated from their point of contact, her skin was like a furnace and her eyes blazed with something he had never seen before; a spark that could light any fire and warm any man. He pulled away and rolled his shoulders back, “Okay, report to Lieutenant Dike and make sure you let everyone know you’re here,” Evelyn saluted him and he returned it, eyeing Nixon when he did the same; with the coat buttoned up over his mouth and the sleeves drooping past his fingers. She gave them both a heart-warming smile and turned to leave,

“Oh, and Private?” Evelyn paused at Winters’ voice, “It’s really good to have you back with us,” she didn’t let him see the blush pepper her cheeks, and he didn’t let her see the way Nixon slapped his back and wiggle his eyebrows suggestively.

 

“Has anybody seen Lieutenant Dike?” Evelyn crouched next to a foxhole behind two men who were sat smoking lazily, but their eyes were trained on the fog, on the trees and what lay beyond,

“Sure Eve, he’s off that way takin’ a walk,” Alex Penkala pointed to his left and took a long drag of his cigarette. He paused holding his breath and cast a side eye to Bull Randleman before spluttering violently and turning to face her with a wide grin, “Jesus Eve! When’d you get here?”

“Few minutes ago,” they shook hands warmly and she patted Penkala’s cheek, watching the heat spread over him, “Is Dike over there or is that what you are telling everyone who asks?”

“I honestly don’t know where he is,” Bull told her, snuffing out his cigarette and putting it safely in the top pocket of his fatigues,

“Does anybody know?” Evelyn stood up and crossed her arms over her chest, “Everyone I have asked says he is on a walk, or they do not know,”

“Well, they’re right about both - wherever the fighting is, Dike isn’t,” Penkala grumbled but he moved to his knees facing her, “So where’ve you been all this time?”

“Killing Germans,” Evelyn shrugged nonchalantly, “In East Prussia and you’ll be happy to know that -,”

Her sentence was cut off by an explosion, and then another, and then another. Shells cut through the air and shattered trees, whistling to the ground and blowing craters in the frozen ground large enough for several men to lay in. Evelyn dropped to the ground as the first hit, and she held her hands over her head, crawling towards the hole Bull and Penkala were huddled in. Bull threw himself on top of her, upon realising that she had no helmet and she felt his nails tearing into the back of her jacket. All Evelyn could see was the lightening and the flashes of the explosions, the falling of the trees and the shadows of men caught in the onslaught. A mortar fell very close to their foxhole, sending debris and shrapnel in all directions,

“AGH!” Penkala twitched and threw himself to the side, rolling around and clutching his thigh. There was blood seeping from between his fingers and Evelyn moved to help him, not caring for the dirt and rocks that fell around her. It seemed that the bombing had stopped for a moment at least and Evelyn managed to tear his fingers from the skin,

“MEDIC!” Bull called out, crawling over to his friend and trying to assess the wound, “MEDIC!” He shouted again, his voice echoing around the trees and settling snow. Evelyn took off Penkala’s helmet and cradled his head against his chest, attempting to stop him from writhing around.


End file.
